


War Heroes

by M_LadyinWaiting (Tanis)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Bonding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Mentor/Protégé, Minor Character Death, Nightmares, Role Reversal, Season/Series 03 Spoilers, Sleeping Together, astral travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6605176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tanis/pseuds/M_LadyinWaiting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of Season Three vignettes exploring the changes in our beloved war heroes.  See chapters for summaries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Things Never Change

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Bent history, see the foot notes for the bending if you're so inclined. MAJOR SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3. I know it's not just me whose seen the changes in the characters this season because I've talked with some of you about them. This is the first (time permitting) in a series of short vignettes on those changes as seen from the POV of various characters because I couldn't resist messing about with them. 
> 
> Translations
> 
> traînard - laggard

_War Heroes_

1.

_Some Things Never Change_

 

"What do you mean he doesn't sleep in your bed, _madame_?" Aramis was amused and trying not to let it show.  Madame d'Artagnan could be a hellcat when her ire was roused, and it was roused now.  "For some reason, I've had the distinct impression he's been regularly enjoying his conjugal rights."

"Don't _madame_ me," the lady warned. "And what he's enjoying is none of your business."

Constance had not been a woman who stamped her feet when angry, but Aramis tucked his own feet beneath the chair he occupied in front of Athos' desk, just in case she'd developed the habit while he'd been gone.  Then wondered if she was likely to kick him.  He was well aware she could slap a man silly and make him enjoy it.  His hand instinctively raised to his jaw at the old memory.

Madame d'Artagnan's eyes narrowed.  Her arms crossed over the generous endowment of womanly charms enhancing her bodice and a small, booted foot began to tap.  "Nor is that what I meant," she snapped.  If she'd had a tail, it would have been swishing. 

Aramis' lips twitched at the image of the newly wedded d'Artagnan's as a pair of cats.  Well, not newlyweds precisely, as their fourth anniversary had apparently been two months ago - yet another of the things he'd missed due to his precipitate leave-taking.  For all intents and purposes, though, they were still newlyweds, having enjoyed less than a month of marital bliss before Tréville had had to deploy the Musketeer garrison. 

So many things he'd missed over the last four years, but Aramis had returned to Paris a smarter man.  He firmed his lips and kept the cat thought to himself.  "Then perhaps you had best explain what you do mean."  He kept his expression faintly querying as he slung an arm over the back of the chair, contemplating _Monsieur_ d'Artagnan's reaction when he told him about this interview. 

He'd been deputized by Athos to babysit the cadets this morning while the rest of the Inseparables were at the palace acquiring new hardware in the shape of those rather ornate, beribboned crosses the king had become so fond of handing out lately, though no one had told him.  It wasn't that they'd been secretive about it, just that no one had said anything, even to Constance, who, he was relatively certain would have been quite pleased to see her husband honored for his service to France. 

Aramis knew only because he'd overheard a couple of Athos' baby Musketeers crowing - albeit quietly - about drawing the duty shift at the palace during the ceremony.  Their barely contained excitement had been patently obvious, as had the fact they'd been told to keep the news to themselves.  Unless Athos had put the fear of God in them, or unleashed his own cold, deadly wrath on them, rumors of the proceedings would be making their way around the garrison before Constance had dinner preparations under way. 

Aramis would have liked to have been invited himself, though he knew with that peculiar sixth sense he still had around his friends, they were conspiring to keep him out of the queen's path.  That did not make his frustration any easier to dismiss.   

"Constance?" he prompted, distracting himself as well as the woman scowling at the ceiling now.  "Come now,  it is unlike you to turn coy."  She'd tracked him down where he'd been sparring with one of the recruits in the orchard, all but dragging him back up here to the office.

She flicked a glance at him and he caught the uncertainty in her eyes before she voiced it aloud. "I don't know what came over me, thinkin' you might have the answers.  We're in the same boat, you and I," the infernal woman muttered.  "Never mind, I'll ask Porthos."

Aramis inspected his fingernails.  "You'll embarrass him, do you ask him questions about you sex life, my dear."  He knew exactly what she meant.  They were in the same boat all right, cast adrift in familiar waters yet unable to read the currents anymore. 

The Inseparables had returned from four years of war changed and closer than inkle weavers.  While he'd been readmitted to the charmed circle, it was not the same; he was no longer truly one of them.  It appeared Madame d'Artagnan was experiencing the same strange disorientation. 

Expectations were such pesky, bothersome things. 

"It's not about my sex life," Constance snapped again. 

Cross-ishly from Aramis' perspective.  The marksman shrugged.  He had not thought it was.  At the same time, he'd known the observation would either move her forward with her complaint or send her back to her kitchen. 

"Sit down, Constance." Aramis gestured to the new chair behind the desk. 

Minister Tréville had taken the old one with him, claiming it bore the imprint of his fundament and he was too old to break in a new chair.  Athos, who four years ago would have born the indignity in noble silence, complained endless about the new chair. 

"Tell me what's wrong. I can't promise to fix it, but I can at least listen and perhaps together, we can come up with a plan."

Constance gave the chair a disdainful kick and came around to sit on the front edge of the desk next to Aramis.  "I'm not asking you to fix it, I want to know how _I_ can fix it.  This morning, for the third time this week, my husband was gone from our bed when I woke."

This was indeed out of the ordinary;  d'Artagnan had never been a morning person.  "Perhaps he has merely become accustomed to rising earlier."

"Not likely," his lady wife muttered again, dainty jaw clenching as she debated how much to share.  She blew out a breath and said in a rush, "Ivefoundhiminhereinbedwiththeothers."

Aramis blinked.  It took a moment to translate, but he was up to the task.  "Whatever it is you're thinking - it's not that." 

"I'm not thinking that!" Constance denied hotly. A beat of silence sliced through the office like a blade through flesh.  "Well, maybe I did, just at first, but I know it's not about ... that."

"So, just to clarify, then ..." Unhappy didn't really seem appropriate, nor did angry, though she was both.  "You're feeling a bit excluded," Aramis settled on.

"Aren't you?" she fired back without missing a beat.

Well .. yes, he was, though he had not fully admitted it even to himself until this moment.  "You know it's not intentional," he said hesitantly, wondering if he was wrong. 

"Of course I know that, you idiot!" Constance smacked his arm, definitely cross-ishly.  "But that makes it worse, don't you see?  They're doing it without even realizing it."  She rose to pace the length of the room.  "It's bad enough we only had a few weeks before they - he..." she hesitated, cleared her throat, and restated again, "before d'Artagnan was deployed to the front.  I was just getting to know _that_ man as my husband when he left.  And now he's a different man.  They all are!" she wailed.  "I don't even recognize Athos anymore and Porthos is like a big, gruff bear with a sore paw these days."

Madame d'Artagnan had put her finger on it.  The war heroes had returned very different men from the ones Aramis had parted with that fateful day.  Four years ago Porthos would have instantly forgiven and forgotten.  The new Porthos, as Madame d'Artagnan had so quaintly put it, _was_ like a bear with a sore paw; he carried a whiff of pain with him like a badge of honor sewn over his heart.  And there was a bruised look about his eyes that could no longer meet Aramis' without the faint accusation of betrayal hinted at in their dark depths. 

Yes, they'd made up, lying there in the dirt laughing over blowing up the stolen powder that should have been sent on to the front.  But only skin-deep.  Aramis felt the difference keenly. 

Indeed, they had all changed in the intervening four years.  Aramis sat in _front_ of the desk because he'd noticed both Porthos and d'Artagnan steered clear of sitting in Athos' 'new' chair.  Athos had slipped into the role of the Inseparables leader long before d'Artagnan had appeared on the scene, but there was in their demeanor now, a different kind of respect.  Not the hero worship d'Artagnan had been wont to display on occasion, nor Porthos' jolly - often feigned - obsequiousness.  It was something instinctual now, a deference that came from the heart, not the head.  But more curiously, Athos did not chafe against it as he had in the past.  He wore this new mantle of leadership as though it was a second skin. 

Constance was looking at him with the air of weary resignation she'd learned from the _comte_.  "Apologies."  Aramis bowed from the waist.  "I was woolgathering."

"So I concluded."

"You're a hard woman, Constance."  Aramis rose, smiling his approbation of her tough-as-nails shell.  She was every bit a match for their once youthful companion, though inside he knew she was soft as a newborn lamb.  "Do you want me to talk to d'Artagnan?"  Whom no one referred to as 'the puppy' anymore.   

"What?! No!  I don't want him suspecting I've gone behind his back!"

So much for sharing this little interval with d'Artagnan, though Aramis was not keen on having the recently reunited husband suspecting the marksman had gone behind his back either. 

"I just needed someone to talk to, and you're the only other person I thought might understand."

Insightful woman.  She was right on all counts; he did understand, but he did not know how to fix it either.  He said slowly, "To be on the outside ... looking in ... is indeed frustrating.  For the nonce, I am trying to be thankful that we are all together again." Aramis made an encompassing gesture, including Constance in the circle, though he had little doubt she was a bit jealous of what little access he did still enjoy.  She could not know the tortuous ache the absence of the old, fathomless depth of friendship had woken.  Nor would he enlighten her.

He opened his arms, encompassing the small, forlorn figure when she stepped into them.  Ah, she was a lovely armful; d'Artagnan was a lucky man.  Though perhaps not so lucky at the moment, as his bride was a very unhappy female. 

"Ahmmmm," a voice behind them drawled.  Athos stood blocking the porch office door for the moment it took them to separate, wearing that look he had perfected years ago. 

Though the missing hat made Aramis want to turn and look again every time he saw the man, to make sure it was really Athos. His friend looked ... well, he looked a little naked without that habitual hat shadowing his expressionless features.     

"Are we interrupting?"  Behind Athos, Aramis could hear d'Artaganan and Porthos arguing good-naturedly. 

" _Oui, mon capitaine_ , a torrid affair.  The lady, she does not belong to such a _traînard_ as d'Artagnan."

The ghost of a ferocious scowl momentarily darkened the captain's tanned face.  "Unless you wish to end up another Marcheaux, do not even joke about it, _mon ami_."  Athos tossed the words into the room like he might have done his hat, with only a whisper of sound, as he crossed the threshold, adjusting his various accouterments in order to slouch sideways in the 'new' chair.  "What's going on?" 

The argument, whatever it had been over, ceased abruptly as d'Artagnan and Porthos shouldered through the doorway at the same time.

d'Artagnan's dark head came up like a fox scenting prey, his smiling countenance shifting to a wary frown.  "What's wrong?"

For an instant, the tenor of the room reverberated as though the drums of war beat a silent tattoo against the walls.

"Nothing."  Constance somehow dredged up a brilliant smile, though Aramis saw the cracks around the edges.  She crossed the room in several long strides to throw her arms around her husband and kiss him soundly.  "I missed you this morning."

d'Artagnan's withdrawal was subtle, though evident.  "We had to be at the Louve early this morning."  He did not move out of her embrace, but every line of his body leaned away from her. 

It disconcerted his wife more than she was already. "What for?"  Constance let her arms sag from around his neck, though she ran her hands over the leather-clad chest before sliding an arm under d'Artagnan's elbow and moving to his side.

"A meeting with Tréville."

Aramis gaze flitted past d'Artagnan to Porthos and on to Athos, neither of whom betrayed the pat answer by so much as a blink.  They'd cooked that one up between them.  Constance might buy it, but it did not explain why he had been excluded. 

"How is the captain - I mean, minister?" Aramis asked casually, moving to take Constance's place leaning against the front of the desk.  He did not want Athos studying his face.

"Tired," Porthos said, unexpectedly.  "Tired and cranky."  He left off guarding the door, moving to flip the chair in front of the desk around and took a seat, crossing his arms on the back.  "In need of more recruits.  We can't turn 'em out fast enough."

"This lot certainly isn't battle ready." Athos slid around on the wooden chair, carrying on the conversation while wondering where to manufacture an outlet for that close-held temper before d'Artagnan took it out on Marcheaux.  Or Aramis.  "How are our baby Musketeers?" He folded his elbows on the desk and tried to look like he was listening as his mind raced ahead.

"They've done themselves no harm in the couple of hours you were gone," Aramis retorted. 

Here was further evidence of the strengthened bonds between these three, they could lie seamlessly without so much as a betraying glance.  He expected it from Athos; the other two had never been able to lie convincingly ... before. 

... before.  Such an innocuous word.  Here in this room, in this moment, it delineated the past and the present with surgical precision.  Before - there had been no reason to lie, they had trusted enough to be honest.  But it was not a matter of trust now.  Before - what one experienced, the others had experienced as well.  Four years of separate experiences had tipped the scales. 

Now there was a careful, diplomatic distance separating Aramis and Constance from the new Inseparables. 

Constance stepped away from d'Artagnan.  "What did Treville really want?" she asked quietly, head down as she crossed to Athos' desk and picked up a small, sword-shaped letter opener.  An exact replica of Athos' rapier, a gift, Constance had told Aramis, from Porthos and d'Artagnan, on Athos' promotion to captain. 

Aramis watched d'Artagnan reach out as if to stop her, then pull his hand back. 

"It's only been two weeks you've been back and I know I should give you time to readjust an all, but I'm tired of walking on eggshells.  If you don't want to be married to me after all, you should say so now so I can move on with my life."  Constance whirled, the letter opener pressed to a shocked d'Artagnan's chest.  "I wasted enough time with Bonacieux, I'll not be wasting more of it on the likes of you.  The queen will have me back in a heartbeat, so make up your mind right now.  Me?  Or them?"

Uh oh, Aramis thought belatedly, he had sorely misjudged the depth of her hurt.  But then, he was a few years out of touch with the female mind.  He dared not move, lest the other three men in the room misinterpret his intentions. 

"May I have my letter opener, Madame d'Artagnan."  The quiet command in Athos' voice could not be mistaken for a request.   

Porthos had risen.  He stepped over Aramis' feet to remove the miniature sword from the clenched fist before turning the distraught damsel into his chest.  The glance he shared with Athos, over her head, had all the earmarks of an entire conversation.  "You don' wanna be makin' threats like that, ma'am.  That boy loves you with every particle of his heart.  Ask him to show you your letters.  He re-read every single one of 'em every night 'fore he slept, they're hardly more than tatters now." 

d'Artagnan shuffled his feet, jaw clenched, dusky cheeks the color of wine red roses.  "This is between me and Constance," he muttered savagely, though he made no attempt to remove his wife from Porthos' arms. 

Alike as peas in a pod, the newlyweds, right down to their muttering, Aramis thought, propping an elbow on his hip and his chin in his hand to hide his grin. Athos poked him from behind, as if he still read Aramis like an open book.

"Much as I would like it to be,"  Athos caught the letter opener Porthos tossed him and sat back, holding it end to end between his fingers, "this is not just between you and Constance, d'Artagnan. This has been festering for far longer than a fortnight.  The wounds need opening and cleansing."

Aramis approved the simile, though he was not sure he shared the sentiments.  Perhaps it would be better to leave the dragon sleeping yet awhile.  Who knew what chaos might ensure if they woke it. 

Constance hiccupped once, the only indication Porthos' broad chest camouflaged tears. A heavy silence descended upon the men in the room.

It was Athos who spoke again, halting d'Artagnan's attempt to formulate a response with another of those speaking looks.  "Constance, I cannot tell you how sorry I am that our actions have ... disturbed you." 

Aramis noted the captain was choosing his words with the care of  a diplomat finessing thorny negotiations. 

"It was a jolt to come back to Paris and find you practically running the garrison rather than safely with the queen.  I find it rather difficult to believe the excision of the extent of your responsibilities here was accidental in all those tattered letters d'Artagnan carried into battle.  But that is an issue for another day." 

Well, perhaps not quite as diplomatic as the circumstances might have warranted. 

The letter opener made a dull thud as it lodged, quivering, in the wood of the desk.  "We had no expectation of finding the capital under siege as well.  It has been a eye-opening experience to return to Paris, but that too will have to be a subject for another day."  Athos rose and paced around the desk to lean back beside Aramis, their shoulder's touching.  "It's going to take all of us some time to adapt to these new circumstances.  War has marked us in ways not even Aramis, for all his insight, can imagine."

"I've been to war with you."  The rebuttal was out before Aramis could stop it ... or moderate the resentment he heard coloring the words.

Athos, hands clamped over the desk behind him, turned just his head toward the marksman.  Aramis gave him the courtesy of his direct gaze, though embarrassment colored _his_ cheeks now.  Porthos' indictment still rang in his ears. _'When you were with me, I never had to worry about who was watchin' m'back.'_ He'd turned his back and walked away from all they'd meant to him.  Without a backward glance.  He was not the only one scarred by his choice. 

"You have," Athos agreed, " but that war was against a collection of religious fanatics, most of whom barely knew the tip of a sword from the grip.  It was child's play compared to what we have seen and done in this one."

"You're right," Aramis conceded quickly and with genuine contrition.  "I'm sorry.  I witnessed the aftermath of many of those battles; the devastation of our villages and towns along our part of the border."  He had his own habits, instilled after four years of thinking of himself as a part of the Roubaix community.  They had never been _his_ towns or villages during his time at the abbey, only an assortment of places where misery had festered, drawing the maggots of humanity that profited from war. 

"Some of those villages were razed by us," Athos continued quietly, though he released Aramis from the intense stare he'd leveled at the marksman.  "Some of those _French_ villagers died by our hand.  We've been in the business of death and destruction for four years.  Four years that to us, has been an eternity.  We are dripping with the blood of our countrymen.   We need time to draw back from that edge."  He paused, running a hand over his eyes before continuing, his voice shading to that old, habitual flatness.  "I will tell you we have discussed this endlessly, trying to come at a way to overcome this wall between us.  We do not purposely exclude either of you; it is just instinctual now, to turn to one another to meet the needs we cannot express with words or actions."    

The old Athos had rarely put together two sentences in a row, this new one had not only found his words, for the most part, that flat monotone he had so often employed was missing.  The majority of that little speech had been delivered with eloquent elocution. 

Constance craned her neck around to spear Athos with a sour grimace.  "So sleeping together is one of those habits?"

A smile twitched the corner of the captain's mouth, though, like Aramis, he was wise enough not to let it out.  "Yes." Athos replied.  "You might like to know d'Artagnan offered to share _your_ bed, _madame_.  However, we thought that might start undesired rumors."

"And the three of you sleeping in here, won't?" Constance demanded spiritedly.

"Not unless you spread it," Athos replied with that old lift of the eyebrow.   "Clairmont has been instructed to pass along the message that anyone entering these chambers without permission again, will find themselves spitted on the end of my rapier.  But you are welcome to join us here, Constance.  And Aramis," those blue eyes turned unexpectedly to the marksman again, "you as well."  There was a twinkle in them now.  "It so ingrained that we end the day together, it may well be a habit we cannot break.  Though I must warn you, strategy is our usual pillow talk."

"Well," Constance huffed, setting aside Porthos' arms to return to her still blushing husband.  "We could use some strategists here in Paris as well.  Feron has had his way for far too long."  She rose on tiptoe to kiss her spouse again, this time lingeringly rather than attempting to brand herself on his lips.  "I'm satisfied with this compromise, so long as it will not make you uncomfortable."

d'Artagnan, his arms wrapped snuggly around his new wife, glanced ruefully at his companions.  "Did I not tell you I am married to a saint, gentlemen?  Captain, permission to -"

"Permission granted," Athos said hurriedly, making a shooing motion as he pushed off the desk to return to the chair, sighing as his gaze fell on the pile of self-reproducing paperwork neatly stacked opposite the 'leaning' corner. 

"About that meeting with Tréville..." Constance's wandering hands had come upon a length of red ribbon.  "You wouldn't have been there to collect ... this ... would you?"

"Get her out of her," Athos ordered grumpily. 

"My my."  Aramis' tone was dry as dust.  "That's the Royal Military Order of St. Louis, the highest military honor awarded in France."  He could not help himself.  "I thought praise and glory was one of your favorite things, Porthos?  When did that change?" 

d'Artagnan had stopped in his tracks, staring in horror at the medal dangling from his wife's lifted hand.

"Since praise and glory involved orders to kill innocent people," the big Musketeer ground out, snatching the medal from Constance's hand.  "These ain't worth the metal they're stamped on, we'd as soon throw 'em away, cept we'll be expected to display them the next time we're on parade before the stupid madman sittin' on the throne."  He yanked his own from his pocket, held out an imperative hand for Athos' as well, then stomped across the room to throw all three medals in the cupboard and slam the door shut on them.

A slow burning anger infused the new silence thrown over the room.

And again, it was the diplomat that dispelled the tension.  "While I know we all share Porthos' vehemence, I must remind you that such treasonous talk does not go beyond this room.  And keep your voice down, for God's sake, even in here.  After that little contretemps with Marcheaux and his plant in the refugee camp, we can't rule out the possibility that he's put someone in the garrison as well."

"He'll be a dead plant do I find him first," Porthos grunted, spreading his clenched fingers.  

"Please do not.  Should my suspicions be born out, I have other plans for Marcheaux's patsy.  Come, Porthos."  Athos rose from the chair he'd barely settled in, crossed the room and opened the door to the inner hallway.  "It could prove to be quite fun, spiking Marcheaux's guns.  Shall we start a betting pool amongst ourselves?  Not knowing him yet, I'm not keen on wagering whether he's smart enough to ever figure it out, but I'd bet on how long it takes him to realize his spy has been compromised."

"I'm in for six months!" Porthos chortled immediately, sliding past Athos as he heeded the unspoken command to vacate the office. 

"Oh, he's smart enough," Constance said over d'Artagnan's shoulder as her husband ushered her out as well.  "But we're smarter!  I'd rather bet on how long we can keep him dancing to our tune." 

"Red Guard n'all, can't be that smart," Porthos rumbled.

Athos sliced a finger across his throat, then slapped it to his lips.  "Shhhhh!  Until we know for sure, this is enemy territory.  Act accordingly," he whispered exasperatedly. 

Aramis filed out last.  "Some things never change," he murmured, clapping his hat on his head as he returned the war hero's smirking, one-armed hug. 

  ~^~


	2. War Heros - 2.  Night Caps & Night Shirts (a 17th century Pajama Party)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos has been dreading this night since the moment he made the suggestion, for in the vulnerability of sleep there is a high risk of exposure, but the war heroes are determined to find their equilibrium again. Like every good military leader he has made his plans and set them in motion. Now he has only to await the denouement. 
> 
> WARNINGS: SEASON THREE SPOILER ALERT & if you don't like Constance, it's unlikely you'll enjoy this story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a series of vignettes exploring the changes in our Season Three War Heroes and their companions.

War Heroes

2.

Night Caps & Night Shirts

(A 17th Century Pajama Party)

 

The goblet dangling from his fingertips held only water, the elixir of life.  There had been days on end where water had been scarcer than gunpowder and lead, and there had been many days when their swords had been the only thing staving off the enemy. 

Four years.  Four long, hard fought years.  The regiment, two hundred strong as they'd ridden through the streets of Paris to shouts and cheers of Vive la France was decimated.  Less than fifty remained of the original two hundred, one hundred and fifty-eight comrades dead upon field of battle.  Athos had a list as long as his forearm of names and dates, copies of the many letters he had labored over at night when the sounds of the fife and drum had ceased, the reverberations of the cannon fire had finally stopped echoing in his ears and his comrades lay sleeping the sleep of exhaustion beneath the stars, or if they had been lucky, under canvas when it rained. 

Athos had prayed for rain every day for four years, with a fervency normally reserved for the fanatic.  Rain meant a cease fire brokered by God, for both sides.  Rain meant no one died beside him or behind him, or in front of him.  Rain meant d'Artagnan and Porthos would live to see another day.  He'd been grateful for every day of rain and every day God had spared the lives of his companions; one thousand four hundred and sixty-seven days.  He had a another sheet of parchment, squirreled away between the pages of a bible he had opened and closed only to remove, mark, and return the much folded and creased page of days crossed off methodically every night.

Athos lifted the goblet and drank in remembrance of those last drops of water in his canteen.  The last drops he'd poured down d'Artagnan's throat when their youngest had caught shrapnel from an exploding cannon ball, the last mouthful he'd used to cleanse Porthos' wounds after Alsace, the last bit of moisture on earth when he'd found himself cut off from his friends, buried beneath the carcasses of half a dozen enemy soldiers, barely able to move, a saber cut on his thigh pouring his life's blood into French soil. 

It took an effort to drag his mind back to the present and the coming hour.  They had agreed, however reluctantly, that including d'Artagnan's spouse and Aramis was necessary, no matter how difficult it might be.  Tonight, Constance and Aramis would join them. 

Athos had woken their second morning back, to find Porthos in his bed, the third morning to d'Artagnan in the bed, Porthos on the floor beside them and marveled at the fact he had not woken either time.  But then, they had learned to creep in quietly so as not to wake anyone who might have been blessed with the mercy of sleep during their time away.     

One expected to experience deprivation in times of war,  but none of them had been prepared for the effects of extended lack of sleep.  No matter the sentries posted around the French camp, Athos had posted his own, and still slept with one eye open, waking often in the night to listen for the sounds of breathing from his two companions. 

Perhaps if he'd understood the precariousness of living in the capital, the trend would have continued.  But the presumed sanctuary of the garrison had temporarily opened those impenetrable barriers, allowing sleep to slip over the border and overpower all resistance.

Those first few nights home, he'd slept the sleep of total exhaustion, beyond the reach of the nightmares that haunted them all, beyond the clenching fingers of pain the lingering effects of dysentery had left them with, beyond even the involuntary bodily response to the constant need for vigilance. 

Sleep deprivation might well have been the reason it had taken more than a cursory glance to realize there was no sanctuary to be found in Paris. 

Athos had only a vague recollection of his initial debriefs with Tréville.  Exhaustion had played a key role in that, too, but neither had he expected to remain in the capital more than the day or two it took to gather new supplies and collect Tréville's latest recruits before returning to the front. 

In hindsight, he thought he should have realized the situation when d'Artagnan had been imprisoned with the refugees the morning after their return.  It had taken the confrontation in the lair of the Red Guards to fully shake him awake to the realization that Paris was under siege.

Their official orders reassigning them to the capital, stamped and sealed by the minister, had arrived the next morning. 

Athos rose to refill the water glass from the pitcher beside the bed, a luxury he would never again take for granted.  

The d'Artagnan's could sleep in the bed, he decided, reconnoitering the room as he would a battlefield, he and Porthos and Aramis would sleep on the floor.  He had pillows he'd collected from Porthos, Aramis and d'Artagnan's old rooms, and extra blankets stacked in the cupboard, smuggled in surreptitiously by Constance over the last week.  It had taken him that long to reconcile himself to this day, even though he had been the one to suggest it.    

The dread roiling in his gut had nothing to do with sleeping on the floor and, yet, everything to do with sleeping.  Four years at war had imprinted innumerable brutal memories the vulnerability of sleep inevitably unleashed no sooner had consciousness given up the fight.  It was one thing to share those nights when one woke shivering as with the ague, with comrades who shared the memories, too. Quite another to expose them to others, even those who had once been the closest of companions. 

Athos had already decided all weapons would be stashed in the large office cupboard, lest one of them wake fighting the enemy.  They'd slept for four years with swords and pistols to hand; that too was proving a hard habit to break.  Though considering the state of Paris, it was likely still a wise practice, but he could not take the risk. 

A knock at the door stilled his restless pacing.  "Come."

Clairmont, the most promising of the new recruits, though he had a d'Artagnan-like ability to get himself in trouble, poked his head around the door.  "Everyone's bedded down, sir, the night watch posted and the next shift already sleeping."

"You made certain everyone is aware of the curfew?  No one is to leave the garrison before morning roll call?"

"Aye, sir.  And posted the notice at both entrances, big and bold like you instructed.  But I made sure the command reached each one individually as well."

"Good man.  How's the eye?" 

Tréville had told him of Feron's latest venture; cock fights. Though instead of roosters, he'd been pitting the cadets of the Musketeer garrison against the full grown men of the Red Guard.  Who somehow had missed the opportunity to serve their country on the front lines.  Athos supposed all young men could be considered roosters at one time or another in their lives, and knew from experience how easily baited young men were. 

"Fine, sir.  Constance told you of the incident."

"No."  Athos lifted an eyebrow.  " _Madame_ d'Artagnan has informed me it is my responsibility to get to know my cadets."  That ship had sailed, _Madame_ d'Artagnan was Constance to the recruits and no amount of _Madame-ing_ them would change that.  He still had to try.  "It was Minister Tréville who warned me of Governor Feron's  - shall we say blood thirsty? - tendencies.  And to keep an eye on you.  Said you remind him of d'Artagnan; a rare compliment, for d'Artagnan has grown into a superior solider.  See that you live long enough to do the same."

The cadet blushed to the roots of his fair hair.  "Yes, sir."

"Goodnight, cadet."

"Night, sir." 

Athos, fists shoved into his aching back, waited until the door closed softly and the firm footsteps faded away before resuming his own pacing. These were his friends, family really, he awaited, yet somehow it was worse than facing the enemy, and that felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

Porthos slipped in first, not long after Clarimont's departure.  "Missed you at dinner," he observed, turning so Athos could unbuckle those difficult to reach bits of strapped on armor.  "And ya didn' wait for me."

Athos shrugged.  "It was one thing to wear amour constantly when we knew we were surrounded by the enemy.  I'm finding it extremely irritating to have to wear it here.  I couldn't wait to get out of it."

"And your back?"

"I'm fine."

Porthos' scowl as Athos undid the last buckle and lifted the armor over his friend's head was chastisement enough.  The twisting and turning necessary to get himself out of his own armor had woken the nesting pain in his back from the last time his horse had thrown him in the middle of battle and moved the bullet fragment again. 

Their last battle, at least for the time being, as it had turned out.  Athos had reluctantly turned over those still standing of the garrison battalion to General d'Aumont, leaving Frayne in charge of the remaining Musketeers, when they'd gone to follow the trail of the missing General Turenne.   Instead of the general, they'd found their missing powder supply.  Which they'd had to blow up to keep out of the hands of the Spanish. 

But - they'd found Aramis. Athos thought the lost powder a small price to pay for the return of their missing brother.  Even if his presence shifted their center of gravity. 

"Lie down and let me work on it 'fore the others get here.  And you'll sleep in the bed tonight.  d'Artagnan and Constance will be sleepin' on each other, no need for a feather mattress." Porthos knew his captain extremely well.

Athos set his goblet on the small table beside the bed and gratefully stretched out face down on the mattress.  Just the heat of Porthos' large hands eased the constant ache that had plagued him for the last six months.   A fragment of a pistol ball the surgeon hadn't been able to get to without fear of nicking his spine.  Despite Porthos having knocked the daylights out of him, Athos' subconscious had a clear memory of the hell of that surgery.  His recovery was one of those indelibly inked recollections.   

Porthos' hands pressed end to end the length of his spine kept him from moving as the door opened again.  Constance, carrying something heavy from the sound of her footsteps, stopped just over the threshold.  Athos heard d'Artagnan's boot falls stop behind her, then the scuffle of slippered feet as the Gascon nudged his spouse forward. 

"What happened?  Were you hurt today?" Constance kept her voice steady.  Fear had become a constant shadow.  Not only for her own safety and that of her garrison charges, but for her spouse and his garrison companions away fighting for the safety of those behind the lines holding back the Spanish invasion, all unknowing that a different kind of fear had staked its own claim in the rear. 

"No," d'Artagnan said simply. 

They'd discussed this endlessly too, knowing there would be a barrage of questions.  There was no way around it; sooner or later they would have to share.  So they'd made a list - subjects they were willing to discuss and subjects that were off limits accept among themselves. 

"This is an old wound."  Not the oldest, d'Artagnan could have added, but didn't, as he set down the bucket of water he carried and took the tray from his wife to deposit it on the desk.  "Bad?" he asked Porthos, knowing Athos' new garrulousness did not extend to his own suffering. 

"Feels like a hangman's noose all the way down his spine."

Athos was glad he had his face in an elbow as the heat of embarrassment flushed his body from head to toe.  Unfortunately, the damn bullet fragment could not be excised from the willing-to-discuss side of the list, it affected him too often.  

The surgeon had wanted to relieve him of his command, Athos had flatly refused. 

He heard Constance tiptoe over to the side of the bed, felt her skirts fluff over his shirt-sleeved arm and the whisper of her hand in his hair.  "Is this why you did not come to dinner?"

He could lie and say yes, it would placate her. 

Aramis had called them on their casual lying, though, after the medal incident, sparking a heated argument that had ended in a negotiated truce.  They would be as honest as they could, but discussion ended when any of the three war heroes called a halt.  The line of questioning also ended there and would not be brought up again unless the party involved divulged further information of their own accord.  It was agreed among them there were wounds yet too tender to probe, even lightly, _even_ if it was patently obvious they were putridly infected. No one had the right to force or try to cajole another to speak of those dark, festering places in the soul. 

They had also agreed, knowing full well the impossibility of the reality, that truth could be spoken in their midst without offense being taken, or hurt manifested.  Though it would not be spoken with anger or malice, hopefully blunting its cutting edge.

"No," Athos admitted, squeezing his eyes shut. 

"He carries tension in his back and shoulders," Porthos put in, relieving Athos of the need to admit his back was bothering him because in addition to the week they'd had, the anticipatory dread of this evening had clenched every muscle in his body with the force of a vise.  "We ain't exactly been playin' Hunt the Slipper since we got back."

Constance's hand stilled momentarily and Athos felt the small sigh against the back of his neck.  "I brought some food if you're hungry.  Pasties and pastries," she said lightly, leaning over to kiss the back of his head before she rose. 

"Careful there, my lady, or you'll turn me into a jealous man." d'Artagnan's tone was light as well. 

Athos heard the booted feet return to the door, followed by the creak of hinges.  He needed to remember to oil those.

"And Aramis is tardy as always," d'Artagnan remarked, closing the door gently.  They'd been wont to let it slam behind them in the old days, and chuckle at the sigh it had always raised from their remarkably patient former captain. 

"Likely found a new inamorata already."  Porthos, having succeeded in ridding Athos' spine of most of the knots, rested his warm palms over the small of his back for a few moments.  "He went out to get some wine."

Athos was off the bed like a shot, practically knocking Porthos from his perch on the edge.  "ALONE?!"  

"Uhh," Porthos frowned.  "Yeah.  You didn't mean for that stupid rule to apply to us did ya?"

"YES!  I did!"  Athos was already belting on his sword.  "Feron is not to be trusted!  For all we know, Marcheaux's sniveling weasel has already reported Aramis' leaving alone." He swiveled on a boot heel, his glare touching each of the occupants of the room.  "No one is to leave the garrison alone, day or night, including _all of us_ , have I made myself clear?"

"About what?" The door opened, admitting Aramis.  The lock snicked into place before he moved to deposit several bottles of wine on the desk next to Constance's food. 

Athos slumped against the nearest wall so great was his relief.  "You will be the death of me yet," he muttered, shoving back the hair that had fallen into his face.  "I just received a verbal slap on the wrist from Tréville for not acting leader-ish enough, so listen well."  He straightened, hands on his hips, bringing the full force of his commanding - when he wished - persona to bear.  "None of us will be exempt from any of the rules posted in this garrison going forward.  We _will_ set a good example and we _will_ do as we say."

"Meaning we're no longer allowed to say one thing and do another?" Aramis inquired airily.  He lifted his hands at Athos' renewed glare, taking an involuntary step back.  "Just clarifying, _mon capitaine_ , since that was never our usual _modus operandi_."  He tried his charming smile as a follow up.

The glare faded to a scowl, followed by a still resistant sigh.  "You will not break this one indiscriminately, no matter the lure of your inamoratas, Aramis.  Until we have brought Feron to heel, no one goes anywhere by themselves, not even to the market." 

The bleak gaze turned on Constance, who nodded obediently.  If Athos needed to rattle his rapier, she would comply.  Marcheaux was a weasel, but a cunning one.  She'd managed to get herself out of a corner or two on her own, but having raised the man's ire to new heights, she was actually glad to heed Athos' command. 

"I know you've been used to going about on your own, Constance, I'm sorry to curtail that, but I'm not prepared to have to murder the entirety of the Red Guard to affect a rescue.  Tréville told me about the little stunt you pulled on Marcheaux and his men."

Well! Tréville was turning out to be quite the little tattletale, Constance thought crossly.  She'd had secrets of her own she'd wished to keep.  Twisting the tiger's tail had been one of them.  She'd had second and even third thoughts about instigating that plot, but only _after_ she'd pulled it off ... with the help of Minster Tréville.  She'd known he'd have to detail the extent of the responsibilities she'd taken over here at the garrison, but she had not expected him to be quite so graphically detailed. 

Athos had said nothing to her prior to this, but his retaking of the reins had been evident from his first full day.  Young men had suddenly appeared to heft bags of flour, carry her casks, stir her pots when her hair began to frizz in the heat of the kitchen, even schlep any water she needed from the orchard well.  She had not realized a cadet had been assigned to her daily until Clarimont had showed up to shadow her for the day, trailing her from stall to stall in the market, confiscating her basket when it began to drag at her arm.  She'd turned on him like a scolding fish wife only to be informed, in no uncertain terms, his orders for the day were to fetch and carry whatever she needed. 

Constance had been at the bottom of the stairs in the courtyard, on her way to give the returned captain a piece of her mind when Athos had appeared at the top of the steps.  Something in his demeanor as he'd started down had silenced her tongue. 

He'd inclined his head with that soft, " _Madame_ d'Artagnan," that seemed to tickle every one of the Inseparables when they proffered the greeting, and gone to mount the horse one of the stable boy's had been holding for him at the mouth of the short entrance tunnel.  She'd turned in place, watching him go, then shaken herself from head to toe and informed Clairmont, in no uncertain terms, he was dismissed.  She'd seen the young man catch her husband's eye, who'd only shrugged, that peculiar gleam evident as d'Artagnan had swept her with a bold gaze before turning away with a smile, to his own task.  The remaining Inseparables had been at the courtyard table, parts of half a dozen flintlocks broken down for cleaning spread out before them.  Clarimont had parked himself in her kitchen and proceeded to completely ignore her clucking pouter pigeon impersonation. 

"Understood." d'Artagnan was first to second Constance's assent, now, Porthos' rumble of agreement coming over top of d'Artagnan's response. 

And there it was again, that deference Athos not only accepted, but expected.  Aramis inclined his head as well.  "Of course we will set a good example."

Blue eyes locked with brown.  "As hard as this is going to be for both of us, Aramis, I'm not just your friend anymore.  There will be consequences." 

The marksman, for whom obedience had ever been a bone of contention, inclined his head once more.  "You were never _just_ my friend, Athos."  Aramis peeled away the _façade_ he'd learned to present to his superiors at the abbey and spoke from the heart.  "You have been our leader since ... what?" he glanced at Porthos, "a week after joining the garrison?  If it took that long."  He removed his hat, holding it to his chest as he bowed.  "I am yours to command as you will."

"Hear hear," Porthos said softly.  "Well said, brother." He sketched a bow, too.  "Aramis speaks for all of us." 

There was a moment's hesitation, and then Athos stepped forward, extending a hand. 

Constance caught her breath, eyes widening with glee as she clapped her hands.  "Ohhhh!  I've always wanted to see this secret ritual!"

Aramis stepped forward immediately, placing his hand over Athos'.  d'Artagnan and Porthos took steps in and reached out too. 

Athos glanced around the circle, then flicked his gaze to Constance.  " _Madame_?  You are one of us now, would you join us."

The eyes widened even more, the mouth formed an O of surprise and Constance, like Aramis, took an involuntary step backwards. "Me?"

"You been runnin' the garrison for nigh unto four years now.  N'you're married to one of us.  We think that qualifies you to be one'a the new band of Inseparables."  Porthos pulled her in by an elbow, laid her hand a top d'Artagnan's, and put his hand back on top. 

Constance thought if she did not die of embarrassment, she would surely burst with the swelling of the soul deep contentment they had just given her. 

All for one?"  Athos' inflection caught them _all_ by surprise.   

"All for one," the answering quartet responded immediately.

 "And one for all!"  This time it was a quintet and did they but know it, that quietly jubilant intonation set in motion the downfall of one Marquis de Feron. 

"Do I get a pauldron and a sword, now?" Constance did not even try to contain the joy dancing an allemande in her heart. 

"Don't you have a sword already, _madame_?  d'Artagnan?  I thought we'd deputized you to see to your wife's pauldron."

"You mean this?" d'Artagnan, as if by sleight of hand, produced a feminine version of the Musketeer's shoulder guards, though the center of the gold fleur de lis on hers bore an engraved A inset with a V.   

"You're not joking ... just to include me."  The words came softly, almost reverently.  "You really mean it." 

Constance reaching to touch the pauldron sparked one of Athos' most cherished memories. Of watching Aramis untangle the buckles and straps of Athos' first pauldron on the table top in his apartment, after accepting a position as the garrison sword master and a long drying out. 

"You've earned it." Athos took the plate armor, fit it over her shoulder and buckled the arm strap at the elbow "The queen gave the orders for your commission," he said, grinning as he opened his arms for a hug, leaving d'Artagnan to size the belt and buckle it at the waist. 

"As a Musketeer? Commissioned?"  Constance hugged him a bit bewilderedly.  "By the queen?"

"That's why your pauldron bears the engraved letters A V.  It's her monogram."

Constance craned her neck to look down at the molded piece of leather that fit her shoulder like a glove.    

"You been doin' the job.  Any reason you shouldn't be commissioned?"  Porthos lifted one of the wine glasses Aramis had been busily filling and handing around.  "A toast, to our newest Musketeer, though no longer the youngest," he laughed, winking at d'Artagnan. 

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes as he raised his glass.  "To my wife, who will kick the shins of anyone who calls her a puppy." 

"To Constance." Athos' grin broadened at d'Artagnan's restraint.  "Who makes our lives easier and cooks even better than Serge," he toasted with his glass of water. 

"To Constance," Aramis echoed, saluting the still wide-eyed _Madame_ d'Artagnan, even as he wondered what the story was with the water, "whose beauty, wit and charm brighten the garrison daily."

Constance, her face alight with a joy that made three men think she was the most beautiful woman on earth, and one allow that she was likely the second most beautiful woman in Paris, threw her arms around Athos again and hugged him tightly.  "Thank you for this, it means the world to me."

"Not my doing, Constance, this was your husband's idea."

She did not quite spin, but she came close as she whirled, her skirts billowing.  " _You_ thought to do this for me?"

d'Artagnan gave a rather Gallic shrug; that infinitesimal lift of the shoulders accompanied by raised hands.  "It was the only thing I could think of that might show our appreciation for what you've done here.  Tréville took it to the queen for us and told us it had her enthusiastic support.  She had the royal mint make the fleur de lis for your pauldron."

"You are the best husband ever!"  She flung herself into his arms.  "Nothing could have pleased me more, d'Artagnan! Not even my own sword!" 

"Hmmmm ... not even ... shooting lessons?"

Constance drew back to smirk at her husband.  "Well, as much fun as that was, this is better.  I never imagined THIS, not in my wildest dreams.  And I had some pretty wild ones." 

"Lucky for me."

For a moment Athos wondered if there would only be two extras sleeping in his room tonight, and then Constance was passing out of flurry of hugs and kisses again, prettily thanking each of them for their role in her astounding surprise, then refilling glasses and handing around plates as the church bells of Paris began to toll the hour of midnight. 

"I hate to break up the party, but --" Athos politely refused the plate Constance tried to hand him, interrupting himself to insert,  " No, thank you.  The duty roster was posted this afternoon in the common room, no one here gets to sleep in in the morning."

"Whatta' ya call these things?" Porthos wanted to know, holding up a crescent of flaky, golden pastry drizzled with melted chocolate as he put his plate down and went to collect blankets and pillows from the cupboard in the small sleeping alcove behind the desk. 

"Croissants," Constance told him, "and that's the last of the smuggled bar of Spanish chocolate d'Artagnan brought home.  Do you like them?"

"I'd like 'em a bit bigger."  They were finger-sized for Porthos. "We'll find ya som'more chocolate."  He was eyeing Athos' untouched plate avidly.  "There's just a touch'a sweet to 'em, you might even like 'em." 

Athos, whose back had forced him to take a seat at the desk, picked up the plate and passed it to Porthos.  "You're welcome." 

d'Artagnan's brilliant distraction had worked beautifully.  Instead of the hint of discord that had inserted itself wil-you-nil-you between the war heroes and their comrades, the collective mood was warm and celebratory.  The Gascon had all the marks of a genius intelligence officer in the making. 

Tonight they would retire in harmony, the dissonance of distance overcome for this short while at least.  And that was a start.  Athos was grateful for the reprieve. 

Constance disappeared behind the screen Athos and Porthos had collected from Athos' old apartment.  He owned the building, and had told his agent to instruct the landlord to leave it vacant on the off chance they made it home alive.  Athos was coming to understand there had been a reason Tréville had not kept quarters out of the garrison; he did not expect to be returning to the apartment any time soon.

d'Artagnan, his wife drawn in to his chest, her shiny new pauldron tucked against her night-gowned chest, had thrown off the blanket already when Athos started pinching out the candles around the room.  He stooped without thought, biting back the sharp gasp of pain, and drew the covers over them, receiving a sleepy _thanks_ from Constance for his efforts. 

Porthos had laid out his bedroll next to Aramis, just like old times; both were asleep when Athos blew out the last candle, stripped to his smalls and crawled into bed himself.

Before surrendering to his own weariness, the Captain of the Musketeers took a moment to importune Aramis' friend, God.  _No nightmares_ , _no sleepwalking, just ... no crazies tonight ... if you can manage it. We'll all be forever grateful._ He did not append an amen, that would be too much like praying. 

Aramis' even breathing drifted to him like an old friend he'd been missing without realizing.  Porthos' familiar gentle snore was reassuring and from long acquaintance, he could distinguish the soft cadence of d'Artagnan's breathing from his wife's. 

Athos slept.  And in his dreams the breech among them was whole again, their tattered spirits rewoven, the bonds unbroken.   

 ~^~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further Bent History: The birth of the croissant itself – that is, its adaptation from the plainer form of Kipferl (dating from the 13th century) before the invention of viennoiserie – can be dated to 1839 when an Austrian artillery officer founded a Viennese bakery at 92, rue de Richelieu in Paris. I've just moved its invention up a couple hundred years or so.


	3. A Mess of Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos answers a summons from the queen.

War Heroes

3.

A Mess of Treason

 

 

"The queen sent fer me."  Porthos held up the closed, beribboned note, broken seal facing up so there was no question as to why he was here.  Athos had warned them not to put a foot wrong, particularly at the Louvre where they knew for certain Feron had spies everywhere.   "Suppose you tell her 'm here."

The seneschal on duty sniffed disdainfully, but beckoned a lower servant.  "The queen is in the east garden.  Take this ... Musketeer to her."

"Dunno what your problem is mate, I bathed this morning."  Porthos made a show of sniffing his armpits.  "Well, mabbe I did, don't rightly remember."  He grinned, showing his teeth, pivoted on the balls of his feet and trooped after the servant trotting back down the expanse of hallway toward the main staircase. 

"Mongrels, all of them."

Porthos did not turn back as he might have four years ago, with an offer to stuff the man's teeth down his throat.  For a moment he was sorry Aramis wasn't with him, between them they could have turned the popinjay inside out  and upside down without touching him, but then he remembered he was mad at the marksman.

Tempting as it was to hike a leg and let one rip, Porthos contented himself with a grin at the thought and caught up to, then passed the servant.  He'd been hanging about the Louvre since his days growing up in the Court of Miracles, he doubted even in the four years they'd been away, the east garden had moved to the west entrance. 

He saw her first, seated alone on a bench in the shade, watching her son - barely visible across the vast lawns and gardens, the king leading him about on a child-sized pony.  He wasted another moment feeling sorry for _her_ , before remembering she was not at the top of his people-who-make-me-happy list either. 

"Your majesty," he greeted, removing his hat as he bowed with all the protocol Captain Athos could ask for.  "You sent for me?"

She did not startle at his words, though he sensed she had not heard him coming.  She had been deep in thought even though her eyes had been trailing her son. 

"Porthos."  Sadness lurked in the shadows guarding her eyes, but the smile she turned on him was brilliant.  "It is so good to see you.  I have prayed non-stop for your safe return.  Would that this interminable war would find an ending!"  Anne raised her hand, allowing the Musketeer the privilege of helping her rise. 

"Amen ta'that, your majesty."  And abandoning protocol,  "I got things to do, what do you want wif me?"  When he wanted, Porthos could speak with an eloquence equal to the Comte de le Fère; he was not inclined to do so now.  He also knew it was safe to abandon protocol because she was much too nice to be spitefully mean, which made him feel a little guilty for a moment.  The king wasn't too nice to be spitefully mean and Constance had told them the queen was slowly but surely being separated from her son. 

He tried - and failed quite abysmally - to feel sorry for her.

"I have some questions."

Of course she did.  She wasn't the only one. 

Porthos was quite fond of his head and they'd barely skirted a trip to the chopping block attempting to cover up Aramis' amorous treason with this woman.  She had a prick for a husband, no doubt about it, but queens remained chaste until they produced the heir and hopefully a spare.  They did not invite infatuated Musketeers into their beds, and especially not under the roof of an abbey full of devout Christian women trying to save one's life. 

"About the war efforts," she continued.

As if he was hangin' on her every word.  Porthos refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just barely. 

Wasn't Aramis always preachin' that their reward was laid up in heaven?  Surely a devout Catholic queen should believe the same.  Instead his monarch had seduced his best friend, his best friend had knocked up the barren queen and a situation had resulted whereby all parties had barely escaped with their lives.  Though only because they'd managed to spin the truth as a lie from the mind of man gone mad during his long captivity in Spain. 

"I'll answer what I can, your majesty."

Porthos had no love for the Comte de Rochefort, hopefully still roasting in hell these four years later for all the trouble he'd caused them.  He had been an immorally evil man, but he'd been a truthful immorally evil man in the end.  Though Porthos could drum up no sorrow for him either. 

"And your companions."

"You do know Aramis spent the last four years in an abbey, right?"

With an aplomb far beyond her tender years, Anne slipped her small hand through Porthos' elbow and turned them away from the palace.  "Of course I do.  But let's walk, shall we?" 

One did not refuse one's queen, even politely.  Porthos matched his big booted footsteps to her far less lengthy stride, still holding his hat to his waist.  

"I am watched constantly, I believe there are spies in every tree and bush on the grounds, but mostly especially there are those that spy on me from the palace.  I suspect more than one of them has been trained to read lips ... so you will know why I have turned us _away_ from the palace."

"You want us to take you away again?"

"That would be lovely, but impractical.  I cannot leave my son.  No, I asked for you because I want a promise from you."

So much for small talk about the war effort. Or his companions. Which might be a relief. "What kinda promise?"  Porthos did not care that she was his monarch.  It was his job to watch over and protect her, he was not required to keep her secrets or make her any kind of promise. 

"I want to know that if something happens to me, the Musketeers will guard my son with their lives.  You will take him from whomever has him, by force if necessary, and see that he is kept safely out of harm's way until such time as his life is no longer in danger, however long that may be.  I do not care if you must take him to the Americas, I want to know he will be safe.  You and your comrades are the only ones to whom I can entrust this commission and know that it will be carried out against all odds." 

With far more strength than Porthos would have imagined her capable of, she drew him onwards when he would have stopped walking. 

"No, do not stop and stare at me as if I were some species of Dodo bird.  I cannot lay this burden on Tréville, the king needs him too much.  And the minister is loyal to a fault.  Divided loyalties could result in a hesitation at a crucial moment and all would be lost."  Her voice dropped, losing all trace of imperial regality as it devolved to that of a mother in anguish.  "I can bear anything, anything at all, if I know my son is safe.  You must promise me, Porthos, that the Inseparables will make the welfare of my son their first priority should Paris become a battle ground." 

Not once as she made this impassioned plea, did her erect posture change, nor her eyes drift from the distant swathe of green she probably thought was hidin' a spy.  Porthos was well aware she did not mean - should the Spanish somehow manage to drive the front line back to Paris - either. 

"I'm mad at Aramis ya know."

She reacted to this non-sequitur with a small smile.  "I had heard.  You love him too much and are too kind-hearted to make him suffer for long, though."  Anne glanced up briefly, studying his face for a long moment before patting his arm beneath her hand.  "You have every reason to be mad at both of us, I'm afraid.  And yet, you've risked your life for mine more than once."  There was a short hesitation and her voice came again barely above a whisper, "I'm sure it's been many more times for Aramis."

"And nearly died a few more times without 'm at m'back too."

"Because of me," she supplied.  "I am sorry for that, but ... blessed Mother forgive me ... I was grateful every day, to know that he was safely tucked away from harm."

Porthos scuffed a booted toe in the grass, ducking his head in that peculiar little side line gesture he made when confessing something embarrassing.  Which didn't happen often, as very little embarrassed the big Musketeer.  "Truth to tell, there was many'a night I was glad for Aramis' safety as well; tendin' Athos or d'Artagnan, thinking they weren't gonna make it through the night.  Much as I hated lettin' him go, it was comfortin' sometimes, to know at least one of us was gonna make it through to the other side." 

"Yes!  That's it exactly!"  Roses bloomed in her cheeks as she turned her face up again.  "Don't you see?  No matter what happens, if only I know my son will be safe, nothing else matters!  Oh please, Porthos, promise me you will take him to Aramis and put them both on a ship bound for somewhere safe.  I do not care if he grows up as a king or a commoner, royalty or a pig farmer, I care only that he has a life to live!"

Porthos sighed - literally gusted a sigh - but he clapped his hat on his head and put his large hand over hers where it rested on his sleeve.  He had to hand it to the king; despite the man's suspicions, he clearly loved the tyke unconditionally. His revenge, though, had a diabolical symmetry worthy of Rochefort. While damsels in distress were more Aramis' territory than his, he could not deny a mother's heart.  It reminded him too much of his own mother, abandoned by a husband whose priorities had lain elsewhere than with the family he'd created. 

"I understand if you need time to think about it.  I know you are loyal to France and I am asking you to commit treason, again, on my behalf.  I do not require an answer now, nor will I hold it against you if you say no."

Porthos grunted.  Damn all womankind; how could he say no?  "I ain't makin' no promises I can't keep, but I will promise you this;  I will make every effort to see that it happens as you've envisioned, _should_ things come to pass here that make it necessary."  The Musketeer glanced down at his royal companion.  "You might want to put a word in Constance's ear; get d'Artagnan on your side and there'll be no question it happens the way you want."

She had her promise, she would not belabor the point. "Speaking of d'Artagnan ... whatever happened to the brash young man who stole Constance right out from under the nose of that man milner she was married too?"

"He grew up real fast like, n'channeled all that audacity into becomin' a war hero.  Wasn't a line a'men d'Artagnan wasn't at the front of, no detail he wasn't willin' to head up, no job Athos ever gave him he said no to.  Don't got enough fingers and toes together to count the number of times him and Athos saved m'worthless life.  We're real proud a'that boy, your majesty, 'cept he ain't a boy no more, he's a man and one we're all proud to call our brother."

"Constance lit up whatever room we happened to be in any time we got news from the front and she heard her husband was alive and wrecking havoc on the Spanish lines."

"He did that a lot," Porthos growled, his excellent memory reminding him of every time they'd turned around and found their youthful compatriot vanished as if into thin air, only to see him at the head of some wedge flying at the enemy.  It didn't matter if he had  a horse under him or not, if there was a charge, d'Artagnan was in it.  If he wasn't leading one, he was yammering at Athos to get the next one going.  It was nothing short of miraculous that they'd brought him home alive and in one piece. 

"He was not the only one," the queen said softly.  "The dispatches were full of the three of you, up and down the lines, encouraging the men, leading the most dangerous assignments, always in the thick of battle where the most causalities were reported.  It's a wonder any of you came home.  We heard the Inseparables became the army's talisman.  I hope it does not crumble and fall apart with your reassignment."

"Leaders always step up when there's a void, your majesty."

"Would that were so here in Paris.  Though perhaps things will change now that you are back.  Minister Tréville was only one man against the tide of inhumanity pouring into Paris to feed on the dregs of war.  Perhaps our war heroes will strengthen his heart for the battle ahead.  It galled him to have to play at politics while he was sending men to die on the battlefield.  Our minister is a soldier through and through."

Porthos inclined his head at this truth.  The last four years had marked Tréville too. 

Hell, the last four years had marked every citizen of France.  Deprivation and disease ravaged the country from north to south, east to west.  Their northern border was nothing but a series of smoking ruins where once had stood prosperous villages and towns.  What the Spanish had not laid waste to, the French had burned to the ground to foil the scavenging Spanish army. 

"And Athos?  How is he?" the queen inquired with honest concern.

"He's coping, just like the rest of us.  He won't like this promise you've wrung from me, but he'll keep it because you've asked it of us.  An ... he ain't mad at Aramis."

"He's loves him differently is all, Porthos.  No less - just differently."

Porthos was struck by the insight.  "I 'spose you're right.  Athos was never one to show his affection openly, though war's changed him too.  But you're right; not less, just different."

Her smile was beneficent.  It's warmth gave Porthos the will to find a measure of forgiveness in his heart.  Love was not a house plant to be trained up a trellis.  It came in so many different shapes and sizes it was sometimes difficult for an old war hero past his prime to recognize it in all its varieties. 

"Thank you for coming to see me.  If you would have the time every now and again, to come and make friends with my son, it would make it easier ... should it become expedient to keep your promise.  And I would appreciate it."

"It wouldn't be ... remarked?"  Porthos could do subtle too. 

"It might."  She was silent for a moment before adding, "I have nothing else to live for, Porthos.  He is my ... life."

Treason came in many different sizes and shapes as well.  It was not as if the Inseparables had any qualms about treason, merely how they perpetrated it.  Porthos bowed his head.  May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb - though more likely they'd be drawn and quartered if caught.  "If you don't mind the cadets rotating through, we can ask the minister to assign Musketeers as body guards for the boy." 

"An excellent idea," Anne crowed softly, beaming.  "Oh, Porthos, you cannot know the relief you have given me."  She hugged his arm quickly before straightening her spine again, regality settling upon her slender form like the folds of cloak falling into a long-familiar pattern.     

Athos was going to run him through for agreeing to this, though their captain looked to be flirting with his own armful of treason.  Could be a mess of treason the garrison might be cookin' up soon, he thought ruefully, though try as he might, he could not seem to dredge up even a respectful nod of regret.

~^~


	4. Miss Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This little piece veers into adult territory with it's portrayal of married sexual situations. It is neither salaciously portrayed nor suggestively descriptive, but if you would be in any way offended by reading further, please use your back button now.
> 
> This is my extended version of that little reunion scene played out near the end of S3:E1 - between Constance and d'Artagnan. Some things don't require words.

How many time's did she have to tell them she was _neither_ their mother nor the maid. Constance huffed a sigh as she trundled down the stairs, tempted to gang press the next tall man passing the garrison to help her hoist the boots, with the gloves tucked inside, somewhere just out of reach of the owner. 

Weary and exasperated, she pushed open the next door. 

Armor?  Who in the garrison wore metal armor?  Puzzled, her gaze shifted to the set of stairs going up, and encountered a jacket, the sleeves still tucked inside a familiar pair of vambraces. 

Her feet stopped of their own accord.  The collected gloves dropped from suddenly numb fingers, the boots fell with a dull thud and she was mounting the stairs rapidly, trepidation and anticipation making her heart flutter madly in her chest.  She had to pause at the next door for just a moment before pushing it open.

She did not rush madly through, she could not.  If he was home ... _if_ he was home ...  sweet, holy mother, what would he think?  Would he find her so changed he did not want her anymore?  She'd known him for two years, been married to him for a month, but she was much changed from the cloth merchant's wife he'd married.  The lady-in-waiting to the queen who'd worn pretty dresses and smelled nice.  Good God, she smelled of butchered meat and scallions and hadn't bathed since yesterday. 

The ten feet to their chamber door was the longest she'd trod in her entire life.  Her gloved hand around the edge of the door, as she opened it wider, was the only thing grounding her feet to the floor.  "d'Artagnan."  Her throat closed around the whisper of sound. 

Time stopped - she did not know for how long, nor did she care - as her avid gaze swept the striking profile that had captured her inconstant heart the moment he'd walked through her door looking for a room to rent. He stood before the window, in the flesh, and with a lot of it one display since only a pair of drawers hung from his lean hips, the light lovingly limning him like a Madonna's halo.     She counted fingers and toes in those breathless suspended moments, saw he had two perfectly good eyes, legs in good working order, two arms still, and the proper parts springing to attention as that profile turned toward her. 

She saw his lips shape words but she did not hear them, she was too busy thanking a benevolent God for returning the handsome man she'd watched ride off to war four years ago.  Shallow it might be, but she was grateful he had not returned maimed and broken as many of the soldiers she'd seen already returned to Paris.   

"Did you miss me?" 

Constance blinked.  Her husband of two months and four years was standing in her bed chamber, his hair wet, a towel in his hands, looking as if he'd never been gone. 

The sound came to her belatedly, like an echo - _did you miss me_?  It curved her lips and set her feet in motion.  She was across the room and in his arms before she could formulate words. 

And then their lips met and she was a wife again and her feet were off the floor and they were laughing together, their hands everywhere at once as they fell onto the bed, heedless of the open doors and half-full garrison. 

"You have too many clothes on," d'Artagnan grunted, naked himself, having miraculously shed his drawers as they'd tumbled to the mattress.  "What are you wearing anyway?"

"My work clothes," she mumbled, sucking in a deep breath in order to undo the wide belt closing the leather jacket belted over the split skirt and bodice she wore for work.  It landed on the floor, the jacket on top of it and Constance found herself face down on the mattress, d'Artagnan's nimble fingers loosening the laces of her outer corset.  She squirmed enough to free her face from the mattress.  "Why didn't you let us know you were coming?  How long are you here for?  Surely the war isn't over, we would have heard." 

"There was no opportunity to send ahead.  I don't know.  And no, the war is not over."  In those three short sentences, d'Artagnan had her divested of all five layers of clothing and they were body to body, flesh to flesh.  "Don't talk, just listen," he whispered, framing her face with his callused palms.

A door slammed, though neither of them heard it.  Constance's hands came up to touch his face as well and d'Artagnan leaned to kiss away the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.  "God, I missed you."

Constance locked her hands around his wrists, lifting herself off the mattress to seal her lips to his and they exploded in a ball of fire.  Their joining was a fast, furious affair, all tangled limbs, frenzied hands and hot bodies.  It was over almost before they realized it, the fireworks so intense and brilliant, they lay entwined beneath that first rain of sparks panting.

_Don't talk; just listen._

As breath returned, Constance let her hands begin the next conversation.  d'Artagnan though, took it over masterfully, and oh his hands spoke eloquently, shaping her body over and over again, scattering pins as they combed through her hair, gliding over sensitive skin,  touching those secret places with a tenderness so breathtaking she was sliding over the edge into madness long before her husband joined her in the delirium of insanity.    

She was wild thing, no longer the worshipped but a worshiper herself, unable to get close enough, unable to hold him tight enough, her legs clamped around his waist as he came into her, the ride to the little death so sharp and intense and glorious, they were both panting again as they drifted back to earth. 

And then he was tasting her, mapping those same places with lips and tongue in a long, slow, dreamy manifesto of silent wonder and praise, his breath a soliloquy of sighs and moans unremembered from their brief foray into married life together.  She heard how he had missed her in the reverence of those sword-callused fingers, listened to the ardent voiceless articulation of the love he had stored up over four long years, harkened to the impatience with which he had yearned to return to her. 

Without a single word, they shared the longing of four long, infinitely lonely years, the anguish of separation, the pain of losses they had been unable to share. 

He fell asleep in her arms, those long, lean, limber limbs slackening as sleep stole in as silently as their love making.  On a long, deep, replete sign, d'Artagnan succumbed.

Before she could ask him if he was alone.  Before she could ask if Athos and Porthos were with him.  If Tréville knew he was in Paris.  If he could stay for a few days.  Ohhhhhhhhhhh ... if only he could stay for a  few days at least. 

She would beg if necessary, Minister Tréville was not a hardhearted man, though he was currently a very harassed one.  Governor Feron was growing bolder by the day, ostensibly advising the king, while making a laughing stock of him behind his back.  Constance had thought Rochefort conscienceless but at least the man had had an excuse; torture had a way of eating away a man's soul.  Feron had been born without conscience or soul. 

Constance lay for a long time, her head on her husband's warm chest, an arm around the lean middle, her hand tucked under his side as if she could hold him here in their bed forever.  As if tomorrow would not see him back on a horse, riding away again. 

Surely he had done more than his part already?  Send Marcheaux and his crew to the front lines for a change, and bring home what was left of the Musketeers.  Let the Spanish give the Red Guard a chance to distinguish themselves in service for their king and country. 

It would not do to let d'Artagnan see her anger, he had enough on his plate without having to worry about a shrewish wife at home, but it was not fair that Marcheaux and his ilk languished here in Paris in relative comfort and safety while far better men sacrificed their lives to hold back the Spanish invasion. 

Her hand, of its own volition, freed itself and began to stroke over the solid expanse of chest, feather light so as not to wake him, but her fingers took a tour of their own.  She had seen a young man off to war, a beanpole of a youth not yet grown into the full measure of his body.  The man who had come home to her was broader in the shoulders, his chest deeper and as sculpted as those palace statues she'd admired so often.  There was not an ounce of extra flesh on him, yet he was no longer the skinny boy she'd waved off to war.  Now every warm, flat surface of skin rippled and flexed with hard muscle, his arms might have been carved out of Damascus steel, even the pulsing blue veins on the backs of his hands were mesmerizing. 

She nuzzled her nose into his neck, inhaling the clean, soapy scent of him, trying to memorize it against the lonely nights to come and his arm came around her again, one of those warm hands pressing her head back down on his chest where the strong, steady beat of his heart echoed her own. 

In the frenzy of their initial love making, her hands had wandered over his body too, but the sensory input had been so elevated, her fingertips had failed to note the raised ridges and valleys of scars both old and new.  She explored them now, carefully, but curiously.  Here, across his left shoulder, her fingers outlined a ridge of scar tissue.  Down over his left side, she met a series of furrows, at least three side by side. 

Very carefully she worked the sheet down he'd drawn over them against the cool in the aftermath of ecstasy.  Moonlight gilded the long, lean length of him and she caught her breath at the magnificent sculpturing of legs and thighs, the quiescent beauty of his stillness in sleep.  She hoped the essence of the boy she had married was still there, inside this new, strikingly handsome creature the war had returned to her. 

She tallied a thin red line scoring his right ankle, and what had probably been a saber slash that was still a lurid purple mark across his right flank.  He half turned toward her, murmuring _I missed you_ , as he nestled her head under his chin, one arm wrapping around her as if to return the favor of holding on forever. 

Her hand slipped over his shoulder.  And stilled instantly.  The marks beneath the pads of her fingers were barely noticeable, but they were chartable still, if one knew the legend of the map.  Some time ago -  likely early in his deployment - her husband had been flogged.  The scars of it were old and textured, hidden beneath skin toughed by the elements, but she could feel the weal's still, the shallow valley's between them, though it was unlikely anyone else would notice, even if they saw him shirtless.  The surface was a long sweep of smooth, unblemished skin beneath her questing palms. 

A hand came up to bracelet her wrist,  drawing her hand back down over his shoulder with authoritative gentleness.  Her fingers curled in his, hesitantly at first, then with sympathetic resolution as warm lips caressed her knuckles. 

"What happened?" she whispered against the lips that had moved from her knuckles to her check and then to her lips, unable to rid her voice of an anguish that was both useless and clearly undesirable on her husband's part. 

She felt the stillness in him, a vastly different motionlessness than the peacefulness of sleep she had only moments ago been admiring.  She felt his sigh, too, though he give it neither breath nor sound. 

Instead of answering, he kissed her again, a long, slow, deep kiss, and lifted her over him, burying himself and his secrets inside her with a deftness she'd often dreamt about during his long absence.  And loved her so thoroughly she knew he thought he had erased all thought. 

She knew better than to ask a second time, her war hero had gently, but very firmly, closed that door.  He kissed her again, chastely on the forehead, and whether purposely or thoughtlessly, turned over, buried his face in the pillow and slept once more. 

 


	5. An Officer and a Gentleman*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville, on the nighttime rounds he has not yet gotten out of the habit of making, discovers one of the war heroes on the steps to the garrison office and pursues an unlikely rumor - has Athos truly quit drinking? 
> 
> Do I still need to put that there are major spoilers for Season 3?

**War Heroes**

**5**

_**An Officer & a Gentleman** _

"Good evening, sir," the cadet on guard duty greeted casually, unsurprised by Minister Tréville strolling in off the _rue de Tournon_ on his usual midnight perambulations. 

"Delacroix." Tréville acknowledged the young man with a nod.  "No further high jinks this evening?"  They'd last encountered one another slinking about a certain bath house frequented by the Red Guard. 

The cadet grinned.  "No sir, not since the war heroes returned." 

"Yet another beneficial effect," the minister murmured, a smile of his own lurking beneath the clipped moustache. 

Admittedly, _Madame_ d'Artagnan had not had to twist his arm too hard to garner his cooperation in her impromptu retribution for the beating Clairmont had taken at the hands of Governor Feron's men.  For that odd hour, Minster Tréville had managed to shed the weighty responsibilities he carried and been, once more, the young man he had been before he had accepted a commission in the king's army. 

It had been satisfying in a way he could neither admit to, nor share with anyone, though he suspected Constance knew damn well. 

"Anyone about?" he inquired. 

Delacroix glanced over his shoulder, though he could see nothing beyond the arch. "Captain Athos is occupying the stairs to the office, sir."

Tréville tilted his head inquiringly.  "This is a usual practice?"  And watched the normally garrulous cadet struggle to answer.  Here was an interesting development, if the cadets were attempting to be discreet. 

"Most nights, sir," Delacroix offered _very_ quietly,  "Says he doesn't need much sleep." 

"I see." Recognizing the confidence he'd been made privy too, Tréville returned in an equally low voice, "I'll make sure to ferret it out of him myself so he has no reason to be suspicious." 

The youth sighed in relief.  "Thank you, sir." 

"Go to bed, I'll take the rest of your watch."

"I can't do that, sir; you being the War Minister'n all, sir.  Not fitting." 

"I wasn't asking, son, that's an order."

The youth came to attention, snapping a sharp salute.  "Sir, yes, sir.  But you'll wake me when you go to leave, sir?"

"Yes, if I leave before your rotation is done, I'll wake you." 

"I'm on until --"

"I know the watch rotation, cadet.  Dismissed."  Tréville watched the youngster until he had crossed the yard unchallenged by the shadowy figure sitting at the top the stairs, then strolled into the courtyard unhurriedly. 

The place looked different at night, the regularly bustling courtyard still and quiet in the moonlight, the barracks a bit derelict.  He noticed the rotted wood Constance had fussed about, and the shakes missing from the roof.  He'd forgotten his promise to find someone to take care of those things for her.  Thankfully she had not set his trainees to chopping down the grove behind the garrison in order to shore up the rotting places, though he would not have been surprised to find her up a ladder, hammering roof shakes back into place herself. 

She was a rare woman. 

 _Madame_ d'Artagnan had moved her things into her husband's accommodations on the occasion of their wedding.  And there she had stayed, even though the queen had adjured her to return to the palace on the garrison's deployment.  Tréville had formed the thought that she'd wanted the comfort of d'Artagnan's things about her, since her new husband had gone off to war a mere two months into the marriage.  The queen must have come to the same conclusion; she had not insisted. 

Truth was, she'd been a godsend. Constance had seen a hole and filled it without being asked.

The sweetly pungent aroma of pipe smoke drifted to the minister on the back of a soft night breeze.    Ahhhhh ... the burden of command ... a night stalker just at the edge of awareness, keeping sleep at bay. 

Though Athos appeared to have settled into the role of Captain of the Musketeers as capably as Tréville had known he would.  Perhaps other ghosts still kept him up late into the night, despite the fact the man appeared far more at peace with himself than Tréville had ever seen the _comte_.  If reports were true, Athos had even stopped drinking. 

The minister was consumed with curiosity.  The point of a rapier met his chest as he turned the corner of the stairs. 

"Unwise to creep about in the dark considering the state this city is in." 

Tréville pinched the blade between his bare fingers, though he did not bother to turn it away.  "Didn't realize I was being stealthy." 

The point of the rapier sagged; the minister released it. 

"I was wondering who the hell had the temerity to dismiss my cadet from duty, but since I've been spoiling for a fight, I figured I'd wait and see." 

"Sorry, you'll have to look elsewhere for a fight.  I'm too old and tired to take you on."  Tréville took a seat several steps below the garrison commander, turning sideways to prop one foot on the riser where he sat, the other on the landing. 

"Too bad."  Athos enjoyed criticism as much as the next man; that meant-to-sting comment about his habit of riding out with his men still irked.  Though a few days of separation and reflection had lessened the acuity of the rebuke. 

His gaze wandered up to view the moon hanging low and full in the night sky, appearing to balance on the peak of the barracks roof.  He wondered if this was a follow-up visit, or if Tréville was in the habit of wandering the Parisian streets at the witching hour.  Perhaps the man had just gotten into the habit of checking on Constance and the garrison at odd hours.

Athos had given quite a lot of thought to the matter of habits lately.  Four years in constant close contact had become an ingrained habit.  He was finding it difficult to be separated for any length of time from his comrades;  d'Artagnan was his third arm,  Porthos, the eyes in the back of his head. 

And yet, they could not always be so.  d'Artagnan had returned to a wife.  Porthos was cautiously allowing that Aramis might be a suitable candidate for friendship again.  Athos needed to find his own equilibrium, to remember what it had been like to be self-reliant.  He needed, in short, to allow them to go off on their own without him - as Tréville had acerbically pointed out at their last meeting. 

His thoughts tonight had wandered far from that reprimand and were not for public consummation, he would wait and let Tréville open any conversation.  Athos suppressed a sigh and set himself to wait patiently.  He'd learned to practice the twin habits of patience and silence at an early age. 

Tréville, however, had quite a few more years of exercising the habit of silence, not to mention it was a rare pleasure just to sit quietly without expectation.  Admittedly, he did have an agenda, though he would not introduce it unless the right opening presented itself.  He sat with his back to the railing, hands clasped about his raised knee, enjoying the smell of the pipe, content to wait for Athos to spill whatever had him sitting on the stairs at midnight puffing away like an ancient at his last prayers. 

Even the chirruping of the crickets was soothing, the constant, steady sound had the lulling effect of music beautifully played.     

Athos folded first.  "A man might reasonably expect to be murdered going about in the dark without the protection of his robes of office, nor even arms with which to defend himself."

"I am not so foolish as to go about completely unarmed,"  the minister replied phlegmatically, reflexively caressing an invisible ivory handle with the authority of a deadly assassin. 

Athos was silent for the space of several chirrups.  "I'd forgotten I learned the habit of sheathing a knife in my boot from you," he said reflectively.  "What brings you to the garrison at this hour of the night?"

"I got into a routine," Tréville answered readily enough.  "I was never comfortable leaving Constance alone here with only a handful of boys to guard the place.  Though she informed me more than once that d'Artagnan had taught her well; she was perfectly capable of defending herself."  He paused long enough to watch the moon lift off the roof peak before countering lazily, "Why are you not in your bed at this hour of the night?" 

The minister was not a fanciful man, but he was relatively certain the man in the moon winked down at him as it began its ascent, shrinking bit by bit with each hand span higher it rose in the ink dark sky.    

Athos hummed deep in his throat, then shrugged.  He was not willing to share the paths he'd been wandering, so he offered up something he knew would be believable.  "Contemplating how I may be more leader-ish and less solider-ish," he rejoined, his flat delivery that of a pre-war incarnation. 

Tréville's sigh was a thing of complexity.  "I will not apologize, though I will admit I may have been precipitous in my delivery.  I know how difficult it is to adjust after practically living in each other's pockets for years."  The following sigh was just plain weary.  "Truth is, I am besieged on all sides.  Constance did a fine job holding things together here, but I could not ask her to be my eyes and ears.  As much as I need soldiers on the front, at this particular time I am in dire need of reinforcements here in Paris."

"Why?" Athos asked bluntly. 

While he was by no means the minister's equal in terms of power or pay grade, they both served at the pleasure of the king, and were equally united in their quest to resolve their country's strife, both internal and external. 

"I am not at liberty to say, but trust me when I tell you the situation is dire.  That vulture, Feron, is positioning himself to be named the child's guardian should something happen to the king."  Tréville was more grateful than he could say, both literally and figuratively, the king was determined to keep _that_ secret, though it put the war minister in a rather difficult position with his garrison commander and the queen. 

The mess with Porthos had been bad enough, but the stakes here were monumental; the fate of a nation could rest on his ability to disseminate information on a timely basis.  He did not hold back for fear of being hung; he was making a deliberate choice to keep the confidence of a friend.  Which meant he would have to live with his internal compass out of whack until it was absolutely necessary to divulge the king's illness. 

He had, however, demanded a thing from Athos he could not deliver himself and it chafed.  Unbearably.    

Such was the position of War Minister.  He held any number of reins he must control without pulling too sharply on one or the other, in order to keep the country on a steady path.  On one hand, he was commanded to accompany the king to a stud farm to purchase new breeding stock for the palace stables, while on the other he sent men off without mounts to be maimed and murdered on a distant war front.  He had seen the extravagant bills for balls and birthdays the exchequer paid without a blink and had to fight with the man to get his soldiers paid.  He had worn through any number of proverbial gloves trying to keep all those reins in check.

"Should I start guessing?" Athos interposed, breaking into the minister's deliberations. 

This, Treville thought, as a wave of weariness washed over him, was why Athos was such a good leader.  He saw things others did not, drew conclusions that seemed farfetched to many, and acted accordingly despite the counsel of most. 

"I wish you would not, for it would put me in an untenable situation.  I swear you will be the first to know when I am relieved of this burden."

Sitting silent in the dark, Athos drew his own conclusions.  If it had to do with dauphin, then something was up with the king.  He had seen the man only twice since his return, but one audience had been enough to take the measure of an ill man.  The minister's warning only underscored the accuracy of his guess.  And what a burden to have to bear, if Tréville was the only one Louis had confided in. 

Untenable situations were rather a specialty of his, Athos knew those places intimately.  He changed the subject.    "How did you do this all those years?"

"Do what?" Tréville was genuinely puzzled, having missed the turn Athos' mind had taken. 

"The lists for victual provisioning alone are longer than my arm.  I'm not allowed to write out one order, I must make certain each purveyor of goods receives their own specific list.  I must not order flour from the butcher, or beef from the baker, and I must make certain the butcher knows we will not accept an inferior cut.  Nor do those unending chores speak to the incessant reports I'm required to read and summarize for you.  I suspect the paperwork to be the domain of interbreeding rabbits."

The minister snorted, a sound totally unexpected from the man who had made the old incarnation of Athos seem chatty in comparison.  It surprised the current garrison captain so much he inhaled injudiciously and choked on a mouthful of smoke. 

"That was the one thing I assumed you would have no trouble with," Tréville remarked, when the coughing finally eased.  "You dealt with it so efficiently during those two weeks you spent in the garrison office, I was hard pressed to remember you were a titled lord rather than someone's secretary I'd been fortunate enough to steal." 

"Garrison office?" Athos echoed.

"You don't remember your stint in the office when you first joined us as a sword master?"

Athos was not proud of the fact his drinking had detrimentally affected his memory.  He shook his head, realized Tréville was watching the moon, too, and said neutrally, "It escapes me at the moment."

"You were very good at it."  The close-cropped dark hair gleamed in the moonlight as the minister turned his head, eyeing Athos with a speculative look.  "Command seems to agree with you finally.  Why do you ask?"

"I have become intimately familiar with it."  Athos sucked at the pipe steam again and blew out a stream of aromatic smoke.  "But it is not a friend."  He did not renew his query.

"And separates you _from_ your friends," Tréville murmured insightfully.  "de Foix and Belgard were already captains by the time I was commissioned.  I was younger than you at the time, still hungry for promotion.  Friends were not as important as advancement, though in a way, I suppose making captain brought us closer together.  At least for a time.  We parted ways shortly after I accepted the charge to create a company to be the king's personal guard."

The _comte_ was probably the closest thing he had to a real friend these days, though the distance of their respective titles, both inherited and earned, still drew a thin, red line between them. 

"You are a natural leader, Athos, I did not offer you a choice because the men would have looked to you no matter who I placed in the role.  Better to put in place a reluctant captain than one the men would obey out of duty rather than respect."

"I understood the reasoning ... that did not make it any easier.  Porthos would have been a far better choice."

"Porthos has the strategy; four years ago he did not have the knack of command.  And Aramis' choice to resign his commission knocked him off his pegs for awhile." 

"He and d'Artagnan formed a much closer bond while we were away."

"Yes, I've seen that.  And d'Artagnan's maturity as well.  They've been good for each other."

 _They've been good for me,_ Athos thought silently, dreading the day they would discover they did not need him anymore.  He missed them anticipatorily. 

They sat for a time in companionable silence, watching the moon's steady rise before Tréville broached the subject foremost on his mind. 

"I've heard a curious rumor," he commented conversationally, "that you've quit drinking.  Is it true?"  He had never been one to beat around the bush. 

"Bad news travels fast."  The anticipatory dread took a new turn for Athos.  "But thank you for asking _me_."

"Oh, I asked both Porthos and d'Artagnan, and Constance as well.  They all told me to ask you."   Discretion seemed to be the byword these days around the garrison, this evening's little byplay just one in a chain of several. 

Athos, despite narrowed eyes, caught the flash of white teeth framed by silvering beard. He did not reply.

"So did you?" the minister asked again.  He was unused to having to pry answers from his men.  

The captain lifted the bowl of the pipe cradled in his right palm with another shrug. "I just traded one vice for another."  A pipe, he'd found, soothed without the vicious after affects of drinking. 

"I'm glad," Tréville said simply.  "If the war has changed you in this way, I can only be thankful."  A short, harsh bark of laughter provided the opening he'd been waiting for.  "Not the war then?" he inquired, keeping his voice casual as he swiveled on the step, turning back to face the right angle of the stair landing.

"I suppose that depends on your perspective." 

If it came out from between clenched teeth, Tréville did not remark it.  Neither did he leave the topic, though the distinctive flat tone clearly conveyed the desire to run as far and fast as possible from this interrogation.  For a moment the rich, sweet spiciness of the pipe smoke swirled around his head like a swarm of angry hornets.  Perhaps he was only imagining the scent carried an additional hint of anger and anxiety mixing like oil and water.

Athos, for his part, had no intention of discussing it.  There was a very specific reason he had stopped drinking, it was one of the topics at the top his list of things he did not discuss with _anyone_ ; much less folk outside of the trio of war heroes.

 _War heroes_.  He contained the growl their new sobriquet always managed to raise.  Someone had taken Feron's sarcastic riposte regarding war heroes at face value; it had spread like wildfire through the garrison and spilled over into the general populace.

In a city where despair lived in every byway, lane and alley, wherever duty took them they were celebrated and fêted.  Porthos insisted they acknowledge the acclaim with appropriate dignity - a smile, a tip of the hat, a wave of acknowledgement, at least, for the accolades heaped on them.  Their presence was a bright spot, he averred, in an otherwise dreary existence, though Athos' response was more often bared teeth than a genuine smile.  He did occasionally manage to tip his hat respectfully to matrons trying to press flowers into his hands; the _mademoiselles_ vying for his attention he ignored completely.  

Athos had a modicum of pride these days, but it exhibited itself in the care he took in his leadership role, in the life he had made for himself post his failed marriage.  It did not look for fame or acclimation, it required only a sense of self-satisfaction in a job well done.  He had no desire to be fêted as a war hero, especially as he did not consider himself any kind of hero. 

The thought, and the memories that followed, did nothing to obliterate the larger question of how he would respond if Tréville pressed him.  The anticipatory dread became a live beast gnawing at his innards.

"Well, I must admit, from my perspective I couldn't be happier, especially as it seems to have stuck this time."

Oh yes it had stuck this time, because the lesson had been imprinted soul-deep.  He would never again allow alcohol to impair his judgment. 

"I know you don't need me to be proud of you, but I am anyway."

Athos sat very still, attempting to breathe normally through the smothering memory.  "It was nothing to be proud of, sir," he managed after a moment, grateful his voice remained steady. 

"I heard differently," Tréville told the darkness gently.

The back of Athos' shirt was instantly soaked as a cold sweat drenched him from head to toe.  He was back in that quadrangle, shifting from dead drunk to stone cold sober between heaving breaths, trying to make his thick tongue shout orders even as the deadly crack of a whip whistled through the air.  In his mind, he heard again the anguished grunt as d'Artagnan stifled an involuntary cry of pain, felt the hot spray of blood across his cheek as the lash shredded flesh.  He'd been close enough to grab the arm of the architect of d'Artagnan's humiliation before he'd been wrestled to the ground.  Porthos they'd just coshed over the head with a flour sack full of stones. 

Athos leaned the side of his head against the stair rails, the anticipatory beast a ravening reality.  He'd woken the day after the incident, to the watchful gaze of d'Artagnan, in the hospital tent.  General de la Force had come by shortly after his return to consciousness, to offer congratulations and a transfer.  Congratulations on setting the camp abuzz with his actions and a transfer to another troop as a result.  Athos had had no choice but to accept the bewildering satirical praise; the transfer he'd turned down flat.  They would walk out of that hospital tent, dignity and pride intact; there would be no hanging their heads in shame, no transferring out to avoid further confrontations. 

d'Artagnan had informed him after the general's visit, that Porthos had fielded dozens of requests to transfer in to the Musketeers. Every man with a horse had applied to join the unit. 

Athos wrenched his mind back from that distant memory.  He had not been back there, even in his thoughts, in years.  And tonight, he had had far more pleasant things to think about.  Tréville was unlikely to stop him if he made his goodbyes and got up to go inside.  And yet, he did not move from his position on the top stair.  "You heard wrong," he said finally.

Tréville let several minutes pass, allowing plenty of time for escape if Athos' obvious reluctance was entrenched.  When it became clear the _comte_ was not going to flee, he suggested, "Suppose I tell you what I heard and you set the record straight." 

The minister had had the report directly from General de la Force, though he'd heard it long before de la Force's account had landed on his desk, and heard it repeated several dozen more times over the course of the last four years.  Strangely, the tale had not been embellished with each new telling as was often the case with war stories, perhaps because the starkness of the act of courage that precipitated it required no embellishment.

He still half expected Athos to get up and leave, but having opened Pandora's box, he could not close it without a little more probing.  This time, though, he did take the long way around to his point.  "Despite the fact I'm no titled lord, nor, at the time, was I highly ranked, the Musketeers were purposely set up independent of the army from their inception.  It put me in a unique position;  I could put up with a great deal because when it came down to it, the three of you - and then the four of you - always came through.  You beat impossible odds, solved the unsolvable, always found a way over or around the mountains and straightened the road for others.  All while keeping the garrison entertained with your antics." 

He felt Athos stir behind him, as if in negation, and smiled slightly, though he still did not turn.  "The fact that you could drink yourself under the table and still report for duty the next day was a source of never ending amazement and amusement," the minister said with some asperity, adding with just a touch of despair in his voice, "Aramis' amorous adventures are still bandied about among the cadets, though I can't imagine where they're hearing the stories." 

He paused again, leaning his head back to follow the moon's progress.  When Athos still said nothing, he picked up his narrative again.  "All this is to say, I did not prepare any of the Musketeers for the strict discipline of the army.  Pickett lines were a joke at La Rochelle, sentry posts barely manned, more often than not the generals were playing cards rather than planning strategies.  Much as I hate to admit it, the eventual fall of La Rochelle was Richelieu's doing.  He moved the pieces and planned the campaigns that won that war, though it was less war than casual siege.

You had quite a bit of latitude as Musketeers.  I'm sure you know by now, war is thirty percent fighting and seventy percent marching and waiting.  Discipline becomes far more imperative under those circumstances or the machine descends into chaos."

Athos knocked out his pipe and laid it aside with the sword he had abandoned behind him.  He'd been gripping the bowl so tight, he'd burned his palm.  It stung as though he'd tried to snatch honeycomb from a hive of irritated bees. 

"Suffice it to say, I should have been less lax in my discipline of the garrison."

Athos set his boots two stairs below, crossed his arms over his knees and dropped his forehead to his wrists.  They had kept their suspicions to themselves, no point in bringing them up now, years later.   

"But I digress.  No matter the incident that precipitated the flogging, your taking the punishment for one of your men went through every army camp on the border like a powder flash.  It reached me within days, long before General de la Force's dispatch made it to Paris.  I'd heard the story a dozen times by the time I read the actual report."  He waited - in vain as he'd expected - then said without accusation, "But I never heard it from you."

Every muscle in the swordsman's forearms rippled with tension as his fingers clenched tight atop his knees.  "Because by the time I was able to write again, our orders had miraculously been 'reviewed' and we were suddenly on the front lines."  Athos did not lift his head.  "And I did not take d'Artagnan's punishment, sir.  They would not let me, though the whole incident was entirely my fault," he ground out.   

"Semantics." Tréville dismissed the statement out of hand.  "You took the same punishment as d'Artagnan and that made you both instant heroes in the eyes of the enlisted men.  I am curious though, how Porthos escaped your fate."

"They knocked him out before he could make an utter fool of himself as I did," Athos replied tersely, biting back the rest of the words trembling in the back of his throat. That was true, insofar as it went.  What he did not add was that while he'd been too late to stop d'Artagnan's punishment, he'd kept his mouth shut and hung onto awareness with every shred of determination he'd possessed in order to announce his heritage as they'd been stringing up Porthos' unconscious form for like treatment. 

He had not even had to suggest blackmail to halt the proceedings.   

"I've thought all along I was missing some vital piece of the story."  Tréville did not append a question mark, leaving Athos room to choose. 

The maintain-your-silence side of the internal debate lost.  Athos lifted his head. "Will we never escape this infernal stupidity?"  The anger he had ruthlessly suppressed came boiling out without his permission, overflowing in his deliberately crude choice of language.  "It had nothing to do with discipline and everything to do with someone taking exception to the fact that we arrived late to the party because we were only deployed after it became apparent France wasn't going to win this goddamned war with a swish and a flourish of swords.  As was explained to me when I took our orders to de la Force's subaltern - because the general was off on some side trip to who-the-hell-knows-where - we didn't get to ride in in our _fashionable_ ," that word was spat with four years worth of annoyance behind it,  "blue cloaks, on our matching horses, and take over the war effort.  We could sit on our asses and wait for our orders to be reviewed by the general like every other unit joining the camp.  We sat for Three.Fucking.Weeks listening to the sounds of battle on all sides of us.

By the second week, Porthos and d'Artagnan, with my knowledge and permission, began slipping out of camp regularly, to scout the lay of the land, though no one was interested in the reports they brought back."

Athos ground his teeth, fighting for that old reserve that had served him so long and so well.  Collecting his temper, he took several deep breaths before continuing in a more moderate tone.  "I suppose I should have realized I was setting them up, since I was dutifully reporting the information they brought back to the subalt.  At the time I had no conception of how deeply the current ran against us. 

Three and a half weeks into our enforced leisure, there was no more tack to mend, pistols were starting to wear from being cleaned so often and I had to call a halt to the friendly target shooting competitions lest we recklessly run through our supply of ammunition. 

 _I_ was so bored I got falling down drunk and because I was sleeping off that drunk, no one thought to tell me the passwords had changed, nor did anyone else know d'Artagnan and Porthos had gone off again.  I don't know that I ever got a straight story out of Porthos he was so distraught, but to hear him tell it, he slipped into camp first without confrontation and was waiting on d'Artagnan when he heard the guards' challenge.  Whether they saw Porthos or not was never established, but they hauled d'Artagnan off regardless of the fact Porthos loudly and furiously challenged them over their right to do so, since I had given them permission to be out of camp."

Athos inspected his fingernails.  Despite a new tendency to eschew reticence, it did not extend to long-winded speeches. 

There were forty-two men still living who knew the true story of what had happened that day, thirty-nine of them had remained behind at the battlefield near Douai.  Athos was not a praying man, but he begged daily for their continued existence. 

Now there would be forty-three men who knew the story.  And perhaps one woman, if d'Artagnan had told his wife. 

"By the time Porthos had doused me with several buckets of water and I was coherent enough to understand what he was telling me ... it was too late.  At the time, it seemed like just one more bad choice on my part, but Porthos thought differently.  He suspected - and the more I thought about it, I had to agree - they had specifically targeted d'Artagnan."

Tréville contorted himself to face the _comte._ "Why?"

Athos propped his elbows on his knees and put his head in his hands.  "He was not quiet about our dissatisfaction at being sent to war to play at target shooting while we were surrounded by the enemy ... and in those days, he tended to come across still as an arrogant young hothead.  Though ..." he heaved a sigh, "more than that, I think they waited and watched long enough to realize he was ... my Achilles heel." 

d'Artagnan had still been the youngest of the garrison, they'd all looked out of for him, but he'd been Athos' protégé.

"In a way, I suppose it was distantly related to discipline.  We've never relied on reports from others, we do our own scouting; it never crossed my mind that I should make them stay in camp.  Porthos and d'Artagnan were used to coming and going through the sentries, they made sure they had the passwords before they left and after the first week, didn't bother slipping in an out unnoticed.

I knew the subaltern was irritated we were bringing back better intelligence; I didn't realize he was stupid enough to disregard everything I passed on."  Athos chuffed a self-deprecating laugh.  "They waited until the day before de la Force was to return to spring their carefully constructed trap.  And I gave them d'Artagnan on a silver platter."

Tréville let out a silent breath. Suspicion solidified.   He had guessed some and pieced together much of the rest, but Athos' telling left no gaps.  "You should have told me, even after the fact."

Athos snarled, a low deep sound of exasperation.  "Exactly what would that have a accomplished?"

"Every man in the army serves under my command, from the generals to the water boys," Tréville replied without inflection. 

"Yes, sir, and every one of them involved knew we served directly under you.  While there was no way to prove anything, I made certain no one under my command was ever that vulnerable again." 

The war minister had no response to that; he well knew envy bred resentment.  Petty people in positions of power were the in-breeders of any organization, the army was no exception.  

"It changed us all," Athos said tiredly.  "That cloak of maturity d'Artagnan had put on and off as it suited him became armor he was never without again. Porthos' amicability shifted a hundred and eighty degrees to a frosty incivility unless you were a Musketeer ... I quit drinking."  And those were just the outward changes anyone with eyes could see.  The changes that day had wrought internally had only been shared amongst the companions. 

The sight of d'Artagnan strung up like a Christmas turkey at the butcher's stall had made him vomit.  If he'd stopped to think on that fateful day, perhaps he would not have been so impetuous, but his brain had still been fogged with alcohol and an instant rage so overpowering if he'd been armed, the soldier wielding the whip would have been dead before the lash struck again.  Instinct as well as fury had driven Athos' response when he'd flung himself heedlessly between the youth and the many-thonged whip.   

In a twist of fate so bizarre he could never have imagined it, what should have been the day of his greatest humiliation had turned into the day of his most laudable triumph.  He'd beaten the bottle in one fell swoop; alcohol in any form had not crossed his lips again until  two weeks ago as the old quartet had been sitting on the hill overlooking Paris, celebrating Aramis' return to the fold.  Athos had spit out the single mouthful he'd taken, once the others had urged their mounts forward.  What had once beguiled with the devil's own blandishment held not an ounce of temptation.  It had tasted as thick and foul upon his tongue as the memory.

"I was fortunate. d'Artagnan did not blame me as he should have.  He sloughed off the humiliation that usually follows such an incident very quickly."  d'Artagnan had stepped out of Athos' shadow that day as well, the harsh initiation scourging away the remnants of youthful playfulness.  Yet another regret Athos kept to himself.  "It did not hurt that the entire camp instantly rose up in defense of him.  He became a sort of talisman with everyone wanting to be near him in battle.  It provided no end of amusement among our own men."

No surprise there, Athos reflecting all the praise back on d'Artagnan, though he had earned the lion's share of the glory with his intended substitution, even if it had not spared d'Artagnan.   Tréville had marked d'Artagnan's settled maturity, and been on the receiving end of Porthos' brusqueness.  He imagined it sprung from having been helpless in the face of the dishonoring of his companions.  Porthos had always had a bit of a mother bear's instinct when it came to his friends and colleagues. 

Tréville clasped his hands around his knee again.  "At the very least I could have moved the pawns around on the field.  You should have informed me," he repeated.

"With the daily dispatches?"

"One of our own men could have been sent."

Athos scowled.  "I knew you would have had an account of the incident.  You know us; I expected you would make your own judgment of the event."

"It's difficult to make an informed conclusion without all the facts."  Tréville did not quail.  He'd been deliberately misled by General de la Force, though he should have followed up with a dispatch directly to Athos.  He'd already been too deeply mired in affairs of state, though, trying to wade through the politics and policies of the nobles on the king's counsel as the country's newly appointed war minister.

The scowl deepened.  "Fine.  You want the truth?  I preferred not to go running to my old superior to tattle on my new superiors.  You taught us to rely on ourselves; to fight our own battles." 

If there was a tinge of admiration in Tréville's incredulous headshake, Athos took no note of it. 

The minister, however, put his thoughts into words.  "I wish I had your skill at turning the tables.  It would have come in handy innumerable times in attempting to dissuade - or persuade - some of the more asinine members of Louis' counsel."  He produced a quietly rueful laugh.  "Did it never occur to you to wonder why I was able to send so many new recruits your way?"

Athos winced as he ran his hands through his hair.  Curling his right fingers into a loose fist, he returned them to his lap.  "No, I don't suppose it did.  We were losing men constantly, I just assumed the river of humanity pouring into the camp was because we had begun national conscription.  Though, it appears we're out of _men_ , based on the age of the cadets I've put d'Artagnan to training here."

"That's God's truth.  Only the old, the infirm and the very young are left.  Constance did an admirable job of recruiting returning soldiers to help with training when she could.  I hope you haven't dismissed them out of hand." Tréville shifted, the stairs were becoming uncomfortable.  " _I_ am fortunate the tide of the war is turning finally.  I could not, in good conscience, have written the orders to keep you here otherwise." 

Athos had met Constance's recruits.  Two were one-armed, one had a peg-leg, one was missing an eye and the other was a shambling giant who'd lost a good part of his wits but still had the eye of a sharp shooter.  On a good day, Guilluame could best Aramis at target shooting. 

"d'Artagnan regularly utilizes their skills, and Constance manufactures other things for them to do to keep them busy."  All of them had been homeless.  The garrison was by no means at capacity, and though rations were expensive and difficult to come by, they could afford to feed and house a few extra souls.  He would send Porthos and Aramis out to practice their act if it became necessary. 

The Captain of the Musketeers changed the subject again.  He did not particularly care if it was abrupt and transparent; he was done with the topic of war heroes.  "It appears the pressing issue _here_ is Feron's den of thieves posing as the Red Guard.  Does Marcheaux have a plant in the garrison like he did in the refugee camp?"

Tréville went with the new topic willingly.  "Not that I know of.  Constance would be more aware of that than I, but I doubt he's brave enough to have put a plant inside _Madame_ d'Artagnan's fortifications."

"More the slink and snide type?" Athos asked casually, the pitch and tone of his voice shading to slower and less deliberate with the change of subject.  He had never been one to hold onto anger past its usefulness. 

"Yes," Tréville agreed heartily.  "He's a lead-from-the-rear type.  And the rumor-mongering sort.  He's done his best to paint Constance as a whore running a bawdy house for men."

Athos' face screwed up for a moment as he contemplated all manner of insinuations in that far-from-simple declaration.  "If d'Artagnan gets wind of that particular rumor, Marcheaux will be a dead man walking - likely not for long."

"Rightfully so, though you know I can't condone anything of the sort.  He's under Feron's protection, any harm done to him will bring down the wrath of the king."

"Isn't Feron Henry's bastard?"  Athos walked just his feet down the stairs and stretched like a cat with the release of tension.  He yawned too, burying it in the full sleeve of his shirt. 

"Aye, half brother to Louis." 

This also was new for Athos, the way he inhabited the shell of his physical form. Before, only a sword in his hand had allowed the loosening of muscle and tendon; he had been contained as a turtle in its shell, beneath that hat, at all other times.  Tréville kept the observation locked in his throat, though this change, too, made him glad for his friend.   

"Tudor blood still flows in Feron's veins."  The stark, clipped sentences conveyed a wealth of information. Tréville added a warning anyway.  "Do not make the mistake of underestimating the marquis' power over the king.  He is family; I am merely an old, fondly remembered mentor raised to the position of War Minister out of need, not love."  The minister rose, dusting off the seat of his pants.  "In fact,  if you're still spoiling for a fight, I have a job for you, one you may accompany your men on with my blessing.  Do you need help doctoring that burn?  You should get some salve on it before it blisters too badly."

Athos shrugged.  " _Madame_ d'Artagnan will wish to fuss over it in the morning.  It's not so bad it will keep me from holding reins.  What is this job you require of us?"  He did not want Tréville accompanying him inside. 

If his bed was not occupied yet, it would be by the time he returned.  Aramis still bedded down next to Porthos every night, though Athos often woke to a companion in the morning.  Their failed practitioner-of-the-religious-life had grown used to sleeping on a mattress, albeit an uncomfortable one. 

Tréville was not so abstemious in his habits that he had turned down the commodious accommodations set aside for him at the palace.  He had taken only his desk chair, leaving behind the more than adequate appurtenances he had acquired over his long years of service.  Though the bed and the mattress barely accommodated two, it was of goose down and deep enough to sink into without ever feeling the ropes beneath. 

Aramis was very fond of it.

War had melded the three Inseparables into a singularly efficient killing machine, they were all having a hard time adjusting to their practically-civilian-like-life back here in the capital.  Aramis' warm back grounded Athos when he woke in the night, heart in his throat, nightmares clogging his brain.  He did not mind the company in the least.    

He did not deem it wise, however, to reveal just how close the Inseparables had become.   

Tréville did not press further.  "There is a third brother, the Duc de Orleans, though you may know him as Prince Gaston."

"I met Orleans a time or two while traveling the continent."

"I am not surprised.  You are only a year older than Louis, Gaston is two years younger.  He would have frequented the same courts as you during your vagabonding." 

Once upon a time, Aramis had recognized a soul worth saving and enlisted Porthos' aid in polishing off the tarnish.  The marksman's audacious maneuvering had led to Athos being under Treville's reluctant command, an event that had changed not only the captain's caustic opinion of the _comte_ , but his perspective as well.  Prior to that, Tréville had had very different terminology for the _comte's_ sojourn across the continent. 

A simpler time in their shared history; Tréville shook off the nostalgia, returning to his original line of thought.  This he could and would share freely with the Musketeer captain.  "Vague, though disturbing, rumors have reached me that our prince is plotting regicide again, with a distant family cousin by the name of Leopold.  Louis took exception to their last failed coup, exiled Gaston and annexed Leopold's free holdings.  Leopold wants control of them back.  I hear he's backing Gaston in a bid for the throne again.  Along with someone more sinister who I still can attribute neither name nor motive too, though he appears to have endless financial resources.  At any rate,  since Prince Gaston seems to be the catalyst, I want him where I can keep two eyes on him at all times." 

"And when do you want this to happen?"

"Tomorrow morning, before dawn if possible.  Best to take him by surprise.  I do not know his relationship with Feron, but I suspect Feron will try to ingratiate himself further with the king by doing our interrogation work for us, perhaps much more subtly than either you or I could accomplish.  I intend to give Gaston just enough freedom to either hang himself or prove his loyalty.  He's too Bourbon to recognize the precariousness of his existence." 

"He was always an imbecile." Athos had little tolerance for idiots, particularly those of Bourbon descent.  His loyalty lay strictly with Tréville and the crown the puerile monarch represented.  "Where do you want us to deliver him?"

"The Louvre for now, though I have little doubt it will be the _chatalet_ before long."

Athos came to his feet as well, as Brujon, d'Artagnan's new protégé, crossed the courtyard from the barracks and came to a halt at the bottom of the steps.  "Delacroix sent me to see if I was needed for duty yet, sirs."

"Yes, you may take over the watch, Brujon."  Tréville turned to start down the stairs as the cadet loped toward his post just inside the mouth of the tunnel.  "I expect I will be seeing you early tomorrow, or rather - this morning."  He stopped on the landing to track the moon - on its way down again.  "You've laid so many demons to rest, Athos," he said quietly, "turn loose of this one too.  Don't let it keep you up at night."  He did not wait for a reply but stepped quickly down the remaining stairs, careful to keep his boot falls light and quiet, and disappeared into the depths of the tunnel. 

Athos watched him go, then turned and moved up the remaining stairs to the porch, drifting past the door of his quarters with unusual indecisiveness. 

He had laid that ghost to rest too.  Like d'Artagnan, the mortification had lasted only for the brief duration of the flogging.  There had been no shame in insisting he bear the responsibility for the actions of his men.  Though the reaction of the camp had taken him completely by surprise.   

In those early days, the cold hand of death had reached out for him more times than he could recall now, only to be batted away by Porthos or d'Artagnan or Frayne or Bastien ... the entire garrison had battled death on his behalf.  Until he had pulled himself together enough to fight his own battles consistently and with purpose.  They'd rallied around him as though he'd been a true officer and a gentleman, even when he'd still been inhabiting both roles as an imposter, believing himself no more than an actor on a stage playing a part. 

That incident had begun the internal shift away from actively wanting to die.  It had not changed overnight, but death had never been an enemy _before_ war and it's brutality on and off the field of battle had jolted him to his senses.

Command had unexpectedly been the catalyst that had freed Athos from his worst enemy - his own expectations.  It had gradually been borne in on him that he was a good soldier, he was a natural leader, he was more than capable of command, and ultimately - he _was_ worthy of respect.  It had taken more than a year for the mantle of leadership to rest comfortably on his shoulders, but eventually it had begun to feel natural. 

He had returned to Paris a very different man than the one who'd gone to war four years ago, resized and shaped by innumerable experiences, some he could not think of without shuddering, others he would treasure for the rest of his life.  Moments of clarity that could only be recognized where there was an expectation of a full and complete life waiting to be lived.  War - and unfailingly persevering friends - had woken him to all the possibilities yet to be experienced. 

Leaning back against the railing he folded his arms over his chest.  He had been contemplating some of those new possibilities before Tréville had joined him and prodded awake those old memories.  They would lie down again eventually, but they were stirring too much still to return to those previously pleasant thoughts. 

It had not been old haunts he'd been pursuing this evening.  No, his current restless nighttime cogitations were the result of a singular, inexplicable choice.

And an unexpected kiss.

 

~*~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer(s): I am not an historian, nor am I claiming to write historical fan fiction. I confess to bending history whenever it suits the purpose of the story. Here, I have made an assumption that noblemen could not be flogged or beaten for any crime. And, that anyone inflicting such punishment upon a nobleman could be punished in like manner, particularly if they were not equally ranked. I spent quite a lot of useless time during the writing of this story trying to verify this assumption and could not. So you may take it or leave it as fact or fiction as you choose. 
> 
>  
> 
> _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story are the property of the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._
> 
>  
> 
> *The title of this story was inspired by the last line in Thimblerig's story - _There is a House._


	6. War Heroes - 6 - Twins Sons of Different Mothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch at the Louvre with Porthos and Tréville, discussing the merits of forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If these presented themselves for writing in the correct order, this one would come directly after _A Mess of Treason_

War Heroes

6

Twin Sons of Different Mothers

 

_...I couldn't live with what we'd done ... so I searched for them for years - without success.  Then ... call it fate, chance... God ... what you will ... he came to me.  -- S2:E01_

 

"Porthos!" Tréville called, lengthening his gait as he caught sight of the big Musketeer striding down the corridor toward the stairs at the front of the Louvre.  

Porthos turned, saw Tréville stretch his pace and waited, admiring the blue brocade on the minister's new uniform.  Well, not new, he observed, as Tréville caught up with him.  "Minister," he genuflected slightly in deference to the not-so-new title.  "Nice togs, blue suits you."

The former Captain of the Musketeers made a harried sound as he took Porthos by the elbow.  "The queen's doing," he said briefly.  "I'm headed to the dining hall, join me?"

"The palace dining hall?" Porthos inquired, eyebrows lifting.  "They let the likes 'o me in there?"

"If you're with me."

"Ya don't gotta be dressed all niffy naffy?"

Treville's suppressed a rare smile.  "Royal protocol takes too much time, I dine with the staff during the day and court dress is not required," he said, trotting down the stairs. 

Porthos followed. 

"You should have told Tanguy to inform me you were here.  I would have been happy for a decent excuse to be shed of the meeting I was in.  Politics," Tréville spat the word like a curse, though quietly.  "Not only useless, a dead bore as well." 

Porthos snorted at the rare honesty.  Arnaud-Jean du Preyer - formerly known as _Captain_ , now styled _Minster_ Tréville - was closer than the Comte de le Fère with his thoughts.   "I was here on business for the queen."  He did not react to the sharp glance cast in his direction.  "But I never turn down an invitation to eat." 

The stairs were empty at the moment, though Tréville darted a look back over his shoulder as he urged Porthos down the second set of marble steps, the clatter of their boots covering his low-voiced question.  "Can you sum it up quickly?"

"Two words," Porthos said out of the side of his mouth, "the dauphin."

The minister's lips flattened into a thin line.  "I hope you made no rash promises."

"She didn't giv'me a whole lot'a wiggle room ... sir," he tacked on just a shade belligerently. 

"She's frightened.  Louis has ostracized ..." Tréville clamped his teeth together as he steered Porthos left off the stairs and down a long corridor where the chatter of the filled-to-capacity dining hall drifted to them even before they turned the last corner into the kitchen wing.  "Never mind.  This is neither the place nor the time." 

The king's secret felt like an elephant's ponderous behind sitting squarely on his chest, making it difficult to breath.  Paris needed to be prepared. That decrepit beetle, Feron, was preparing to pounce, Tréville knew it in the very depths of his soul, but the king continued to turn a deaf ear to any word against his bastard brother.  Louis was dying, he wanted family around him - and that was the most charitable twist the minister could put on it.  He had loved the boy like a son; the whims of the man had him chasing his tail constantly. 

Thankfully the Inseparables had his back again, but they were five against innumerable odds, since Tréville was certain Feron was plotting treason with Gaston.  But that was a headache for another day.  He must remember to ask Athos to put one of the boys watching the Bastille; if Feron was coming and going, he needed to know. 

"Bring us two plates of whatever's hot, and quickly, please, Annette."  Tréville had chosen a table off in the corner, a little apart from the general hustle and bustle.

"I know, Minister.  You're in a hurry."  The serving maid, who'd appeared as if she'd been waiting for him, smiled flirtatiously.  "And who might this fine-looking specimen be?" she asked, giving Porthos the once over and an audacious wink.  "A Musketeer?"  Her mouth rounded in an O as the big brown eyes caught sight of his pauldron.  "One of the War Heroes?" 

The tick at the corner of the minister's mouth could not be mistaken for anything other than amusement.  Feron's mocking comment on the returned war heroes had obviously been heard and transformed.  How it had gotten around so fast, Tréville had no idea, though his sources had informed him it was already all over Paris. 

Minister Tréville had a handful of favorites among the staff, folk who'd gone out of their way to ease his difficult transition to palace life.  In addition to helping to serve meals in both the staff and the royal dining room, Annette kept his rooms spotless, without one piece of paper moved from where he'd laid it down.  He liked that a _great_ deal, especially as the first maid assigned to his room had moved his papers around will-nil-you, so he had been in constant search of anything he laid down for more than five seconds.  These days, in addition to just mopped floors, fresh towels and bed linens, and not one speck of dust in sight, he often came back to his chambers to find fresh flowers arranged before the window, or placed beside his bed, a luxury he had at first barely deigned to notice. 

When he'd causally suggested to Annette that he did not require flowers in his rooms, nor did she need the extra work, she had pertly informed him everyone needed flowers in their life, they made a splash of cheerful color in otherwise sober rooms and soothed weary minds with their delightful scents. 

He'd begun to pay attention after that, and found the carefully chosen blossoms made him smile at the end of a long day.  Every now and then she would leave him a little note - violets represent faithfulness, nasturtium is for patriotism, if you want to court a lady, give her yellow tulips, denoting hopeless adoration.

Annette was one of his favorites. 

"Annette, this is Porthos of the king's Musketeers.  Porthos, Annette has worked in the Louvre since she was a child.  If you ever need to find your way around the back ways of the palace, she knows every nook and cranny."

"Porthos!" she exclaimed, before Tréville had finished. "You _are_ one of the war heros!  I peeked at the ceremony the other day," the girl dimpled shyly, "but 'twas so crowded I didn't get much of a view.  I bet the Spanish turned tail and ran when they saw you comin'."  She winked again.  "Going!  I'm going, Minster!"  And whisked herself away with a laugh.  

Porthos turned to watch her go, shaking his head as he turned back to Tréville.  "A ripe little arm full ya got there, Minister."

The man's frosty blue eyes softened, crinkling at the corners.  "If I were twenty years younger," he said ruefully and adroitly changed the subject.  "How's Aramis?"

Porthos wrinkled his nose.  "I dunno.  Ask Aramis."

Tréville's eyebrows rose like twin camel humps before scrunching together.  "What's going on with the two of you?"

"Nothin'." 

"Have you had a falling out?"  Tréville asked, going straight for the heart of the matter.  There'd been enough deception between them to last a life time,  he knew to deal straight or not at all. 

Nearly twenty years ago, give or take a few months, Porthos had appeared on his proverbial doorstep.  A young man with a league-wide grin and an inimitable, in-bred swagger that could only have been inherited from his father.  He'd been drug into the office by the ear, by one of the washer women, screeching about theft at the top of her lungs.  Though she'd produced not one shred of evidence. 

The child Tréville and de Foix had abandoned in the slums, along with his mother, had been hardly more than a baby.  He'd had his mother's hair and his father's eyes at three.  At thirteen, he'd had his mother's hair and, already, the promise of his father's height and build, along with his eyes.  Tréville had known him instantly. 

The captain had kept the secret for more years than he cared to think about now, and as a result, he had firsthand knowledge of just how long Porthos could hold a grudge.  Thankfully the foundation of their relationship had been strong enough to weather Porthos' justifiable resentment. 

Porthos scowled.  "What's it to you?"

"You well know one does not throw away something of value simply because - for a time - it does not suit.  Put the past behind you, Porthos, like you've done so many other times."

"Why should I?"  The belligerence was back, considerably more on display.  " _You_ think I should just forget that he abandoned us; walked away from his commission like it was somethin' to be sold at the junk shop."  Porthos heeded the unspoken warning in those blue eyes and lowered his voice.  "You of all people oughta understand how angry I am with him." 

"I do.  But _you_ understand better than most how superfluous resentment is, especially under the circumstances."

The dark head canted as the eyes narrowed.  "You tryin' to make some comparison with m'father?"

"Hardly.  What Belgard did was an act of depravity.  Aramis' choices were made from a very different place."

"I know that."

Tréville watched the play of emotions Porthos never bothered to mask.  "I noticed you haven't returned his sash." 

Porthos' big hand involuntarily caressed the blue sash belted around his waist even as he started to growl.  It was cut off by the reappearance of Annette with a tray bearing plates and tankards. 

"There's trifle for dessert today, I'll bring some extra," she whispered confidentially, sliding the food off the tray, then balancing it on the edge of the table to move the tankards. 

"Thank you, Annette."

She dimpled again, prettily.  "My pleasure, Minister." 

"So you think I should just get over it?" Porthos demanded, hardly missing a beat as the girl sashayed away.   

"You mean to tell me four years negates all those years the two of you were as close as twin sons of different mothers?"

Porthos' tankard thunked against the table top.  "He walked away from us without a backwards glance.  Left us standing in the road as though we were a steamin' pile of horse shite.  An' what happens when he waltzes back into the fold?  He gets feted like the Prodigal Son, 'n Athos hands over a new pauldron like they're a dime a dozen."

Tréville ignored the plate steaming gently before him.  "Has he lost his aim?"

"N'ah, he's as good as ever with a musket."

"Can't hold a sword anymore?"

"What is this?" the Musketeer stirred the hard shells swimming in butter, steaming gently, on his plate.

"Escargot."

"Snails?"  Porthos sniffed the garlic-flavored mist rising from the large plate.  "His sword arm is fine.  Never had snails before."  He watched Tréville deftly spoon up a mollusk and fork out the ... creature ... inside.  He picked up his own spoon, though he wasn't certain even he was up to snails.   "Why's everybody  askin' me about Aramis, anyway?  Make him haul his ass over here'n ask him yer'self." 

Treville's spoon was suspended over his plate, but he did not look up as he said quietly,  "I understand better than you think.  It felt like I'd left behind a limb when I had to part with your father and de Foix." He lifted his head then.  "It irks me no end that I was so wrong about Belgard's character, but the kinship was as real as it was for the four of you."  He and his friends had been equally young and brash and sure of themselves.  For a time. 

"Three of us," the heir to the marquisate of Belgard muttered under his breath. 

"He's a good man, Porthos, who made some bad choices." 

"M'father?" Porthos interjected innocently.   

Tréville shot the Musketeer a quelling look, though Porthos just grinned and forked out another snail.  A little slimy, but if ya swallowed without chewing, they went down smoothly, leaving a buttery garlic taste lingering on the tongue.   "Well, yeah, then if you're talking 'bout Aramis.  Monumentally bad choices."

The word _treasonous_ crackled like lightning between them, though it remained unvoiced.

"Athos has certainly returned a different man from the one I saw off to war four years ago.  I heard he's quit drinking."  Tréville tacitly changed the subject again.

If this was an invitation to expound on _those_ changes, Porthos ignored it, though he could easily have filled the minister's ears with any number of untold tales.  "So are you," he countered, stuffing his mouth full of baguette, "a different man that is." 

Tréville could not remember the last time he'd had a decent night's sleep, or even time to empty his bladder completely.  He pissed on the run these days - he'd learned to keep a chamber pot hidden behind his office door - and fell into bed at night exhausted, yet unable to sleep.  "I suppose I am," he replied. 

A bit fatalistically from Porthos' point of view.  "Guess we all are.  Though mabbe we would'a been anyway, even if the war had never happened."  The Musketeer shrugged.  "Four years older at least, 'n hopefully wiser."

"So, if you can't - or won't..." there was the faintest hint of a question mark after the 'won't' before Tréville continued, "tell me about the others, how are _you_ faring?" The minister sat back and lifted his wine glass, having consumed his plate of food even quicker than Porthos. 

"Nothin' different 'bout me, I am what I am 'n always will be.  Big, mean and surly." Porthos lifted his gaze to the minister, open, honest and steady.  "Mabbe a little bit meaner.  We seen and done some things none of us're proud of.  Took a toll on d'Artagnan'n Athos.  Wasn' nothing I ain't done before 'n likely to do again do I stay with soldiering.  Which is likely as well, since I don't got a lotta options in the way of earning a livin', 'less'n I go back to thievin' and whorin'. "  He picked up his napkin and wiped at his mouth politely.  As if wiping away the stain of his deliberate word choice before adding, "That don't appeal to me so much anymore." 

Across the short width of the table, Tréville studied the man he'd commissioned as his first Musketeer.  Belgard had been promoted to Captain of the king's guard shortly after that night's atrocity and both he and de Foix had been transferred out of Paris.  They'd lost touch and while it had pained him, Tréville had also been relieved.  He'd had no choice but to go looking for the mother and son when he'd been re-assigned to the Paris army post.  He'd made a thorough search of it, his conscience allowing him to do nothing less, but the pair appeared to have been swallowed whole by the slums of Paris, he had found nary a trace of them. 

Until Porthos had been dragged into his office by an ear.  Tréville had never believed in fate, but he'd recognized an opportunity to right an old wrong, an offered the youth options:  the magistrate or the army.  Possible imprisonment or deportation on the one hand; on the other, a full belly, clean clothes and his own bed to sleep in every night. 

Porthos had chosen the army, though he had been too young to warrant a soldier's wage.  Tréville had first put him to work in the stables under the care of the master sergeant in charge of the equine cavalry.  Porthos, never one to dawdle, had been so quick and efficient with his chores, he'd been hanging over Treville's desk looking for something else to do long before sun high.  In desperation, the captain had started using him to run errands, and discovered he'd gained a powerful countermeasure to Richelieu's constant poking and prying into Musketeer affairs.  All he had to do was hand the lad a missive, send him off to gallivant about the city and the cardinal's spies would hare after him like hounds after old Reynaud.  It had given both of them immense pleasure to outfox the Red Guard.  And Tréville the opportunity to do his business in private when needed. 

It had been Porthos who'd brought Tréville the first vague warnings of a plot to snatch the French throne in 1619.  Without any recognition of the enormity of the news he'd so casually reported at the end of the day, the youngster had noted he'd seen the Orléans mansion being aired and cleaned.  Rugs beaten, furniture uncovered, because of course his curiosity had been piqued by all the activity and he'd had a look in the windows.  He'd found it strange that Louis' _maman_ had been supervising the operations, did she not have servants to oversee such goings on?

Porthos was looking askance across the table, that court jester eyebrow raised in query.

"To old times."  Tréville lifted his wine glass in salute.  "I was just thinking of your misspent youth.  And all the headaches you saved me."  They'd gone out together, a pair of raggedy beggars, the elder leaning on the younger in the oldest of ploys.  Eavesdropping in covert corners, listening for the telltale hush of voices plotting treason until Tréville had had enough substantiation to take to the cardinal. 

The signature grin appeared, flashing white, as Porthos lifted his own glass.  "You taught me most of what I know, sir."  There was no grudging pause this time, before the honorific.  "I'll drink to old times." 

"You forgave me, Porthos."

"Son of a bitch, you circled us back here on purpose."

The minister lifted one shoulder in a half shrug.  "Couldn't help myself.  I'm worried about both of you.  A rift like this could rip apart the whole unit."

"Well that ain't gonna happen."  Porthos blew out a breath.  "He's s'tied up in knots worrying about them kids, he ain't spent a moment worrying about our mad.  My mad," he appended after a moment's hesitation.  Athos and d'Artagnan had welcomed the Prodigal with open arms.  They'd tried to make it like he'd never been away, like there hadn't been a gaping hole in their midst.  Well there hadn't, at least not for very long, because they'd learned to move as a trio instead of a quartet, learned to compensate for Aramis' absence pretty quickly, as it had been adapt or die. 

Sure there'd been moments of the old camaraderie since Aramis' annunciation.  Or was that renunciation?  Porthos had never been a hairsplitter, he did not care whether God's messenger had visited Aramis or the sharpshooter had broken his vows of his own accord.  The result was the same, they were four again, instead of three, but the missing piece of Porthos' heart no longer fit snugly in its usual place. 

Aramis had been marked by his time away, too, though in a very different way from his companions.  Sometimes he was too big for the spot, other times he shrank so much he was too small to plug the hole.  Once in awhile, for a moment or two, he fit just right.  Laughing as they lay in the dirt together, falling naturally into their unique brand of interrogation, even the occasional opportunity to fleece some unsuspecting pigeons with pebbles in a bottle.  Yeah, sometimes he fit just right.  Sometimes it felt like he'd never left. 

That wasn't what had Porthos guarding his heart.  It was the conflict he saw in Aramis' eyes when traveling monks came through, or they passed a monastery, or heard the bells of Notre Dame.  The way the marksman's gaze turned inward even as his eyes followed the pilgrims or turned to survey a church.  The way his head tilted when the full-throated bells began to toll. 

"'Member how it was when he first arrived at the garrison?  Out'a place, uncomfortable and too cocky for his own good."

"I remember." 

"I get the feelin' it was the same at Douai.  He would'a done better in the last century when there were more warrior priests, or mabbe he should'a taken himself clear to Rome and volunteered his services directly to the pope."

"He wasn't happy then?"

"I thought that was pretty clear.  Athos said he found Aramis in the choir loft talkin' to God.  I wasn't privy to that conversation."

"He did come back, Porthos."

"Yeah,  he ditched those kids and came back with us, though _that's_ killin' him from the inside out now.  Can't seem to make up his mind about anything.  Ain't no guarantee he won't just walk away from us again."  What had Porthos guarding his heart was the fear that Aramis' compulsion to serve his God was greater even than the recently rediscovered ties that bound him to his companions.  And he knew damn well Aramis was feeling guilty about abandoning his orphan charges. 

"How about we take it one day at a time?" 

"Yeah."  Porthos stirred the shells grown cold in the soup beginning to gel on his plate.  "That's all we got anyway.  May as well stop being angry and take what I got."  He set his jaw and glared across at the Minister.  "You know damn well it don't work that way."  The chair scraped back as the big Musketeer rose.  "I'm gonna pass on the trifle.  Don' ask me 'ta lunch again when its snails."

Tréville tossed his napkin on the table and leaned back, watching the tall figure thread his way neatly through the close-set tables and benches.  The shoulders were back, tendons taut, jaw clenched, as Porthos strode out the doubles doors without looking back. 

The Minister sighed.  Clearly, he'd struck a nerve; a deep one.  He did not see Annette's gaze following him as he pushed back from the table and rose as well, though there was a fresh bowl of trifle waiting on ice for him, when he got back to his office. 

~*~

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did You (Want To) Know - the title of this story was inspired by an old album titled _Twin Sons of Different Mothers_ by a pair of folk singers who, sadly, eventually went their separate ways.  
>  _This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to The British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns; the story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain._


	7. Today Is Not Our Day to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inseparables gather to mourn the loss of their leader.

War Heroes

7

_Today Is Not Our Day to Die_

 

d'Artagnan pressed his gauntleted hands against the door and leaned in, without force, to rest his forehead against the wood as well.  Sounds came clearly to him from beyond the barrier; the soft plink plunk of water dripping into a basin, the creak of the floorboards with each measured footstep, even the silence had a sound of its own. 

Sighing out a long breath, he flexed his forearms and pushed the door open. 

Constance's head turned slowly over her shoulder, the tears on her cheeks reflecting like that diamond he'd promised her, in the candlelight.  "I still can't believe it," she said as his arms came around her waist from behind and she leaned back against his chest, nestling her head in the crook of his neck.  Her arms folded over his, the wet cloth dampening her skirt. 

d'Artagnan felt the splash of her tears, hot against his clasped hands.  "I know." 

There were no words, only feelings jostling for ascendency; pain was slowly crowding out shock and denial, though guilt hovered like a stinking miasma in the back of his mind.  A Musketeer and a war hero, and he'd squealed like a stuck pig.  Humiliation was making a cozy nest for itself at the center of the maelstrom of emotions. 

"d'Artagnan." Constance lifted a hand behind her head to unerringly cup his cheek.  "It is not your fault."  She felt that stillness he had brought back from the war creep over him, shuttering his thoughts, blocking her out just as he had done that first night in their bed when her questing fingers had discovered the map of scars on his back.  Her eyes closed on a fresh seep of tears. 

He said nothing for the longest time, then turned his head and kissed her palm before stepping back.  He reached around and took the scrap of cloth from her hand.  "I'll finish this."

It was a dismissal worthy of Athos; this side of curt but without doubt, a rejection.  Under any other circumstances, Constance would have fought, but her own pain was too great to mount the battle needed to assuage d'Artagnan's.  She left the room with a quiet swish of skirts, closing the door noiselessly behind herself. 

d'Artagnan did not know he was on his knees beside the impromtu bier until his mind registered the cold hand clasped between both his own.  "I'm sorry."  His breathing hitched as a sob balled in his solar plexus inched its way toward his chest, catching in the back of his throat.  "I'm so sorry."  His whole body fought the sound, the tearing of his heart, the sinkhole widening in the pit of his stomach, the churning in his soul manifesting as wracking shudders he could no longer control.  This was nothing so clean as a sword stroke, it was a rending such as he had not known even at the loss of his biological father. 

There would no warming the hand he held this time, as he done so many times beside a camp bed or a hospital cot, no color creeping back into the pale, bearded cheeks, not even the faintest of breaths to count with assiduous intensity. There was no small burning ember yet to fan back to life here; to bargain with God over.

The captain ... minster ... no, _regent_ \- was dead.  d'Artagnan had gritted his teeth and kept his silence through a flogging, weathered Porthos' crude battlefield surgery with nary a curse, endured torture without making a sound and yet, Tréville was dead because the great d'Artagnan, even knowing what was coming, had yelped at the merest prick of Grimaud's sword. 

Shame smelled of the excrement of death as bodily functions ceased to hold sway when the brain stopped the heart.  It smothered his senses, clogging the very blood in his veins so it ran sluggishly, affecting every sensory perception in his body. 

A warm hand closed over his clasped fingers, a shoulder wedged up against his own and another hand closed around the back of his neck.  d'Artagnan fought the need to slump sideways into the offered comfort. 

Athos fought back.  The hand around d'Artagnan's neck moved slowly up to gently press, until they knelt together, leaning into the sanctuary of one another, heads just touching as that hand slipped back down to knead the bent vertebra.  "It was the way he would have wanted to die.  In service to his country ... to his king.  He never wanted to be an old man, he told me so himself.  It was why he turned down the king's request to fill Richelieu's position." 

"He might be alive still had I not failed in my duties."

"He put the king in _my_ keeping, d'Artagnan, if anyone failed, it was me.  I should not have sent him off with Constance in the first place.  I should never have left Louis, period.  And then I compounded my stupidity by keeping it from you and Aramis."  Athos's voice was little more than a whisper of sound.  His repetition was a sorrow-laden sigh, "The failure was mine alone."

"You don't know --"

"It doesn't matter."

"I --" 

The hand squeezed gently, reassuringly.

"One of the washer women told Sylvie.  She does not know us well, yet."  Athos settled his weight more firmly against d'Artagnan.  "It doesn't matter," he repeated.  "A rapier does not meet resistance against thin air, Grimaud would have known anyway.  I'm grateful he was in a hurry and needed the king alive; you could have both been dead otherwise." 

"You would have shot me out of hand had I been a new recruit."

Athos' sigh rose from the deep well of shared war memories.  "I know you were back in that hell hole.  There is no shame, d'Artagnan, in being human.  We do not come equipped with the ability to choose when and where we allow memories free rein."  Roncesvalles was not spoken of even among the three of them, though it had been a significant turning point in d'Artagnan's willingness to leap into a breach without consideration of the consequences. 

d'Artagnan's breath hitched again.  He'd dragged his feet as long as he could master the mental capacity to do so, but he'd had one foot in the next world already by the time Porthos and Athos had escaped their captors and managed to free him as well.  He did not think about Roncesvalles if he could help it. 

It had been the king in his arms that had thrown him back in time.  To the day he had tried to rescue a whimpering child at the bottom of a steep pit.  He hadn't stopped to think or calculate; it had not mattered that the child was clearly Spanish, he'd seen only an infant in need and acted accordingly.  Porthos and Athos had been captured trying rescue him.  Their escape seriously hindered when the Spanish closed off the pass with the bodies of the dead. 

They all bore Spanish scars from Roncesvalles. 

The hand around d'Artagnan's neck flexed again, Athos' forehead rested against his temple, strands of hair tickling his eyelid.  He heard the word, "Breathe," and felt Athos inhale deeply.  His body instinctively followed suit and the memories folded down neatly into their assigned spot. 

Time ticked away in uncounted minutes for the two living souls.

"Your knees are younger than mine," Athos said at length, borrowing d'Artagnan's shoulder to raise himself to his feet.  "Come."  He held out a hand.  "We should finish this."

They set to work in silence, finishing the job Constance had begun, of bathing the body.  Aramis came, soft-footed, his arms full of candles, Porthos on his heels, carrying clothes the queen had sent over from the palace.  One of the new, never-worn outfits tailored for the new Regent. 

"No," d'Artagnan said flatly.  "We're not putting him in those."

Aramis rolled his armful of candles onto the countertop, turning as Porthos held up the fancy togs for inspection. 

"No?" Porthos asked.  "He looks mighty fine in 'em."

"d'Artagnan's right," Athos seconded.  "No one will know but us and if anyone asks, we'll say he was buried in his full robes of state.  He left his coat over the back of the chair in my -- his ---" he shook his head wearily, "the office." 

"It's right here." Aramis collected the worn, leather jacket hanging from an open cupboard door.  "Constance must have had the same thought.  There is a full set of clothes here." 

"What are the candles for?" d'Artagnan inquired, as they began the job of fitting stiffening limbs into clothing.

"The body will remain here in the garrison until morning," Athos answered quietly, as he tied the laces of a shirt sleeve.  "We will have the cadets spread word throughout the city, anyone who wants to pay their last respects may do so here." 

"Why not the palace?"  d'Artagnan forced a boot onto an uncooperative foot.   

"Tréville had little use for that kind of pageantry," Porthos, who'd known him longest, stated with authority.  "He understood its necessity, but didn' hold with it himself.  He wouldn'a wanted that."

"The queen offered."  Athos' conversation with the queen had not been limited to who would take over what responsibilities. 

"Inviting all of Paris is to invite a kind of exposure we may regret."  Porthos tenderly lifted the corpse so Athos and Aramis could slip on the coat as d'Artagnan shoved the other boot into place. 

"I know."  Athos leaned over to buckle the coat.  "It is both _his_ due, and the people of Paris.  He is much loved; a war hero in his own right several times over." 

"Remember when he made us walk all the way back from Calais, after he caught us fleecing the new cadets?" Aramis unfolded a royal blue cloth cornered with large embroidered fleur-de-lis that had been sent over with the clothes and laid it over the second infirmary exam table. 

Porthos snorted.  "M' feet were sore for weeks after we finally got home.  We weren't doin' it ta' anyone couldn't afford it.  I never did understand that punishment."

"d'Artagnan," Athos, his hands under Treville's shoulders, nodded to the feet.  "On three." 

Porthos and Aramis anchored the cloth as d'Artagnan and Athos hefted the body onto the second table.  Aramis began spacing the candles evenly around the edge.  Porthos went to clean off the first table and d'Artagnan helped him move it out of the way.  The quartet moved table, body and candles into the middle of the room. 

"You remember the first time we got paid as Musketeers."

A smile spread across Aramis' face at Porthos' question.  "Gads we thought we were rich!  You'd gambled yours away before the night was over."  He punched Porthos playfully. 

"And you spent yours plucking one'a your pretty flowers out of that brothel."

Athos stepped into the hall to send for Clarimont as Porthos cackled. 

"'Member the look on his face when you drove that coach and four through the entrance on a bet? We hadda take the team off'n push it back through in order to get it out. Left alotta gilt paint on the walls." 

"Remember the look he gave us when we announced we'd recruited Athos to be the garrison's sword master after he'd turned down his request to buy a commission?"

Porthos guffawed  again, slapping his tailed kerchief against his leg.  "I'd give anything to see that look one more time."

The mood sobered again, between heartbeats. 

Clarimont knocked on the open door and stuck his head around.  "You wanted me, Captain?"

"Yes, I need a contingent to spread the word around Paris; our doors will be open all night to any who wish to pay their respects.  No one goes out alone though, understood?"

"Yes sir, we'll get right on it."

"I think I will was always remember how humble he was," d'Artagnan observed.  "And yet, he knew his own worth.  He would not back down when the king was so angry he sacked him as Captain of the Musketeers.  I was surprised when Tréville continued on here, as though he was one of us.  Though ... he was ... even when he was captain.  I've only ever served under Tréville and Athos, but I imagine that's an unusual trait to find in the army."

"It is," Porthos agreed.  "Though I've only ever served under Tréville and Athos, too, I had plenny'a run-ins with general this or that and their aide-de-camps who thought they were better than their masters when I first come to the garrison.  Tréville treated everyone as an equal."

"He believed in me, maybe not right away."  Athos slouched against the door jamb.  "But he did not withhold his approval for long.  He was unstinting in his belief in all of us.  And I don't mean just the four of us; he believed in every Musketeer.  We were better men because of it."

"His dry sense of humor always tickled me when he allowed it out." Aramis leaned a hip against the impromptu bier. 

"Yeah, me too."  Porthos drifted back to lean against the counter.   

Silence crept back into the room settling like a low hanging fog. 

"Do you suppose we'll continue on then," d'Artagnan asked quietly.  "As the new king's personal guard?

Athos hummed.  "This goes no further than this room, as I've been strictly forbidden to tell anyone.  However, I'm done with secrets."

Three heads turned in his direction. 

"The queen is planning a blessing ceremony to be held at the cathedral once the funeral is behind us.  She is disbanding the King's Musketeers ..."  Three jaws dropped.  Athos held up a hand.  "And reforming us as the People's Musketeers.  Our jobs will be little different than they are now.  We will still augment the Swiss Guard at the palace, but it will be our responsibility to keep the likes of Grimaud and Marcheaux from causing further harm among the populace. In fact, our first job will be to hunt both of them down, along with the remainder of the Red Guard.  I do not want any of them brought in alive, though unless you have him dead to rights, you will leave Grimaud to me."  Athos crossed his arms over his chest.  "I am not asking; that is an order." 

d'Artagnan's expressive eyebrow winged up.  "We have _carte blanche_ to kill them?  They don't have the right to a trial?"

Athos scowled at their youngest.  "Fine, if your conscience is bothering you,  then you may arrest them if they throw down their arms and follow like lambs.  They will die on the gallows anyway for their treason.  I, for one, cannot find even a shred of mercy in my heart for the traitors who were involved in murdering Tréville." 

"Well, when you put it like that..." d'Artagnan deflected Porthos' swat. 

"As much as I would like to spend the night here," Athos shoved off the door frame, "if we are to have half of Paris parading through the garrison, we need to be the ones on guard.  We know the faces we're looking for.  Anyone entering needs to have empty hands visible and no hoods pulled up.  d'Artagnan and I will take the street entrance, Porthos, you and Aramis station yourselves at the front of the courtyard.  Make sure you have enough ammunition to win any war Marcheaux and/or Grimaud might attempt to start."  He turned to go, stopped and turned back slowly.  "Brothers, today is not our day to die."  Those words had been branded on his heart.  "But should one or all of us fall in the coming days, I will take your love with me to the grave and I hope you take mine." 

Porthos, closest, grabbed him around the neck, reached for d'Artagnan and flicked a glance at Aramis, who was already on his way.  "Today," he coached as they circled arms affectionately, heads bent inward.

"Today is not our day to die!"  In deference to their mentor, they did not raise their voices, but the rafters rang nonetheless. 

"You know he's here, don't you?" 

A zephyr of warm air wrapped around them briefly, as if another pair of arms, their encompassment broadened by new freedom to stretch beyond the confines of a corporal body, lengthened to accommodate four pairs of broad shoulders all at once.  

The Inseparables stood for a moment longer, arms entwined, as the warmth slowly faded away.  

~*~

 


	8. Head Over Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> d'Artagnan finds his mentoring skills tested when Brujon folds under the weight of Clairmont's death. 
> 
> Possible tissue warning - I can never tell with my own stuff.

War Heroes

8

_Head Over Heart_

"You know better than to treat your weapon like this, cadet.  And why are you out here alone?  The captain said --"  d'Artagnan shied back from a precisely calculated shovelful of dirt.

"Don't think to lecture me when I'm just following in your footsteps."  There was menace in the growl that writhed up like fog-shaped spirits from the grave in the early morning chill. 

Kicking the musket free of the burgeoning pile of earth, d'Artagnan moved to the edge of the precise rectangle.  "Captain's orders, no one is to be off by themselves."   

"I don't care and I don't need or want help," Brujon snarled, the next shovelful raining off d'Artagnan's chest to patter down around his booted feet. 

The Musketeer flicked soil off the pistol in his hand as he surveyed the silent cemetery.  Fourteen open graves.  Fourteen interments.  Fourteen new crosses.  Fourteen casualties of greed and arrogance.    Fourteen friends gone forever.  

Nine Musketeers, four cadets, one barely-held-the-office Regent.  Irrevocable tragedy.   

d'Artagnan had just come from the palace, where they had moved Tréville's body.  The queen has asked that the Regent lie in state until the funeral at the Ninth Hour.  Then they would bury him here among his Musketeers.  Athos had decreed it. 

The grief was nearly overwhelming. 

Porthos' _'we left a clean war to come back to this?'_ resonated in the back of his mind as d'Artagnan grabbed a nearby shovel, pitched it into the hole and jumped down.

Brujon turned his back and began shoveling on the opposite side.  Without giving ground.  "Fair warning," he snarled, "get in my way and I'll chop off whatever the shovel lands on."

"Fairly warned,"  d'Artagnan agreed, and back to back with the cadet, began throwing up shovelfuls of dirt as well, though the grave was already deep enough to accommodate at least two coffins.

They'd worked in silent tandem for nearly half an hour when d'Artagnan felt Brujon cease his depredations upon the earth.  Stomping the shovel upright in the soft ground, he brushed his hands on his britches and reached for his water skin, then offered it to the cadet. 

Brujon shook his head, though he did lean heavily on his shovel handle, for which d'Artagnan was profoundly grateful.  There was not a fiber in his body that did not ache with a wearing intensity. 

"Why are you here?"

Dawn had barely broken night's hold, the slanting rays of the sun touching only the lip of scorched grass surrounding the pile of damp, dark earth.  In the still, cool light, d'Artagnan met the level look with a frown.  "You've been a cadet for six months and you still need to ask that question?" 

Brujon squeezed his eyes shut.  "I don't want to hear about comradeship and brotherhood," he grated.  And in a rush of spilling words, ground out,  "We weren't cut out to be soldiers, we should have stayed home ... should have listened to our parents.  We should _never_ have come to Paris."

d'Artagnan, more than bit surprised, swallowed his first response and took a long, hard look at the tear-stained teen.  Intuition slapped him across the face so hard his head spun.  It took a moment to gather his composure enough to say quietly, "I'm sorry."  And resume shoveling.

"For what?"  The belligerence could not quite conceal the underlying anguish in the youthful voice.

"If you would prefer I keep vigil at a distance, I will afford you that space."

A trickle of blood joined the grimy trails of tears as Brujon bit his lip, only to be washed away by a new river of tears.  "Yes ... no ... I don't know ..."  He smacked his forehead.

Perhaps, d'Artagnan thought, in an effort to bring clarity to the raging torrent of emotions that must be crowding the overtaxed mind.  Or just as likely, in a useless attempt to rein in the grief clawing at the tender spirit housed in the shell of a proficient and truly gifted cadet.

Clairmont had had the desire; Brujon had the natural talent. 

"I should have been with him ...   should have ... protected him.  It should have been _me_!"  Brujon folded over the shovel handle, his body wracked with low, keening sobs. 

_Merde_!  He was three kinds of idiot; d'Artagnan smacked himself mentally.  Guilt was a fresh, keenly honed blade, one d'Artagnan knew the slice of all too well. 

With an ease borne of extended association with men whose masculinity had never been threatened by physical contact, d'Artagnan knelt in the dirt, elbowed the still upright shovel out from under the cadet and caught Brujon as the youth collapsed in a graceless heap of sharp, boney angles, slumping over d'Artagnan's knees. 

Grief was an unpredictable deluge, it came in on a flood tide and ebbed in its own good time.  d'Artagnan's own tears - for the tragedy of a young life stolen by a man who had been robbed of his humanity; for Brujon's loss; for the accumulated loss of comrades and friends -  salted the new-turned earth as well. 

"How will I tell our parents." It wasn't a question, more a cry of despair.

"That is not for you to worry about.  I will make that journey with Athos."    

Brujon unbent as though time had aged him decades in the last twelve hours, to sit back on his knees.  "No, I cannot in good conscience, send another to do my job."

"Then we will go with you."

The cadet rose up enough to pivot on his boot toes and sag back against the dirt wall, propping his elbows on his knees.   "No," he said again,  flatly, "this is my responsibility."

d'Artagnan dug in his pocket for the talisman kerchief he was never without; it had belonged to Porthos once upon a time.  "I believe it's Athos' responsibility, so technically, you'd be going with us."  He wet it with his water skin now and, kneeling up, grasped Brujon's chin to wipe away the accumulated layers of dirt and tears.  "Are you certain we should bury him here?"

Brujon wiped his streaming nose with the back of his dirt-caked sleeve, undoing most of d'Artagnan's handiwork.  "He wanted so badly to be a Musketeer.  When he asked if we'd won and I told him, yes, he said ... 'Then we'll get to wear the uniform.'"  The teenager pressed the heels of his filthy hands into his eyes again in an attempt to stem the tide of tears that would not be conquered. 

"What did you tell him?" d'Artagnan prompted after a moment.

" What else could I tell him?"  Brujon attempted to squeeze off the seeping tears.  "I told him ... yes ... one day ... brother.  I thought ... I thought he was getting ... better.  I thought ... it was true."   

d'Artagnan pulled the youth back into his arms as the storm intensified again, an encompassing hold that sheltered as much as it comforted.  "We will bury Clairmont and the rest of our comrades as full Musketeers," he promised rashly, knowing full well Athos would baulk at passing out four new pauldrons just to have them uselessly buried.  Somehow,  though, he would make certain that ragged strip of blue cloth Clairmont had worn so proudly was replaced with the sigil of the House of Bourbon.

d'Artagnan rinsed the muddy handkerchief when Brujon drew back again, that filthy sleeve once more coming into play.  "I'm sorry," the cadet muttered.  "I ..."

d' Artagnan cut off the stammer with precision.  " _This_ is _not_ a matter of head over heart."  He handed the shabby bit of cloth to the cadet this time, remembering his own youthful pride and the horror of unwanted tears. 

Brujon buried his face in the threadbare material for a moment before obeying the implied command.  It was black when he held it out tentatively.  "I can ... get it washed."

"No need."  d'Artagnan took it back, rinsed it again and kneeling up, finished the job. 

That kerchief had been used more than once to stave off death's hot breath, wipe away the soot and grim of a long day's battle, it had even been used as a flag of sorts to rally the Musketeers to the Inseparables.  d'Artagnan had rescued it the last time Porthos had used it as a tourniquet, it had a long and honorable history, it did not deserve retirement in the dust bin.

And the cadet no longer looked like a face-painted court jester, though his fair complexion did nothing to camouflage the flush of mortification tinting his cheeks scarlet. 

They were knee to knee in the narrow space and d'Artagnan reached across to curl a hand around the back of Brujon's neck.  "We have all lost comrades and friends in the last two days, we are all grieving, but there is a job to be done still.  The ranks of the Musketeers are seriously depleted,  and Aramis' effectiveness will be comprised by his duties this afternoon.  You are the most qualified of the cadets; I'm counting on you to watch our backs as we tend to the Minister.  I need you, Brujon." 

"Yes, sir," the cadet replied wearily.  "I serve at the pleasure of the king."

"When this is over, if you want to go home, I will make certain you are honorably released from your pledge, but Brujon, it would be a waste of your talents if you choose to do so."

"It does not matter, I cannot go home without Clairmont.  And he would not want to be anywhere else."  Brujon allowed himself to be drawn to his feet and boosted out of the grave.  Burying his shovel hilt deep in the pile of dirt waiting to fill up the deep hole he'd just dug, he turned to give d'Artagnan a hand up out of the earthen fissure.  "I will try not to disgrace the battalion with further tears." 

"Aramis says tears are a natural fortification of the mind; smething we were never meant to control or stifle of our own accord.  There is no shame in shedding them."  d'Artagnan waited until the youth had scooped up his musket to sling a companionable arm around the youngster's shoulders, turning them toward the alley behind the shambles of the garrison stable.  "You must allow your heart whatever time it needs to grieve for our fallen comrades."  

The still- young war hero steered the youthful cadet between the rows of charred and blackened crosses, across the scorched grass. 

Changing the subject purposefully, d'Artagnan asked,  "You've seen the sketches Aramis made of Grimaud?"

Brujon nodded.

"Keep a sharp eye out and your weapon at the ready.  No one will go unarmed, even into the cathedral."

"I can do that."

"Good, I'm counting on you."  The repetition was deliberate and more effective than a command.    

By the time they arrived at the back door of their temporary headquarters in Christophe's tavern, Brujon had tapped some inner well of strength, squared his shoulders, and was walking under his own steam, though his footsteps dragged with a heavy lethargy.   

d'Artagnan sat the cadet at the work table in the deserted kitchen, plied him with strong tea laced with a healthy dose of brandy and set to work preparing a quick breakfast. 

Exhaustion, however, had taken its toll before d'Artagnan turned back with the steaming omelet.  Brujon was asleep, head resting on a crooked elbow.

Silently, d'Artagnan stepped over the bench to sit down beside him, eased the tea mug from inside the lax fingers and began to eat.  It was not that he did not grieve every loss the garrison had suffered, but he had learned to grieve on the move.  Between burying the dead and cleaning weapons, before the next call to leap into volleys of deadly cannon fire, around bedside vigils, strafing lead and perilous pikes.  d'Artagnan had lived in a perpetual state of mourning since his first encounter on the battlefield. 

If he could afford Brujon an hour's rest in the middle of this war, perhaps even stretch it to two, he would spare the time to keep him company.

Aramis stuck his head around the door.  "Ah, there--"

d'Artagnan cut him off with a sharp slash of his bladed hand. 

Aramis raised an eyebrow.  "-- you are."  He did at least lower his voice.  "I wondered where you'd got off to this morning so early." He scrounged a fork and helped himself to Brujon's morning meal, blithely ignoring d'Artagnan's scowl. 

He'd kept up his sign language skills by teaching it to the children, so he had no trouble interpreting d'Artagnan shooing him off, nor understanding the silently voiced, _'go away.'_ He was rather amused that Athos' protégé was fulfilling the early promise of leadership, issuing orders as though he was already in command of the garrison.  That did not mean, however, he had any intention of complying with those commands. 

 "He was out digging well before dawn."  Aramis slid onto the bench across from the pair, commandeered the plate  and proceeded to devour d'Artagnan's culinary efforts with gusto.  "He's dead to the world."

"Not the best choice of words at the moment."  d'Artagnan's scowl shape-shifted into a glare.  "You knew he was out alone and you didn't tell me?" 

"He needed to be alone; digging kept him busy."  Aramis filched the mug of brandy-laced tea as well.  "Porthos and I took it in turns to keep an eye on him."

d'Artagnan grunted, only slightly mollified.  "I wish you'd told me."

"We had other business to attend to and you wouldn't have left him alone."  Aramis, having finished his second breakfast, rose and went to rinse the plate and tankard in the wash tub.  He set them to dry on the towel laid on the counter, continuing quietly,  "You know Brujon is only here because Clairmont up and left the village to join the army."

"He never told me that, but I gathered as much from our conversation this morning.  Did he tell you?"

"No, I got from it Porthos, who heard it from Tréville, and shared it with me one of the times we were watching the two of you training in the courtyard."  Aramis turned back to the table.  "You know they're both titled?  Younger sons of the nobility, so just courtesy titles, but still..."

"Uh -- no; didn't know that either.  Nor would I have guessed.  Neither of them have that indefinable air of authority Athos wears like a second skin."

"That would be because Athos is a true _comte_ , having inherited his title when he was barely into his teens.  No responsibilities devolve to a courtesy title."

d'Artagnan shrugged.  "There were no airs, no expectations of special privileges." 

"No, they're good kids.  Too bad they joined up at the wrong time.  I think Brujon is going to have a hard time adjusting to life without Clairmont."

d'Artagnan only shrugged at the speculative look Aramis cast his direction.  "I'd have a hard time adjusting, too,  if you or Porthos or Athos had been killed in that blast.  By the way, I need Athos, would you find him, please, and ask him to spare me a moment."

Again with the commands; it certainly hadn't been inflected like a question, despite the phrasing.  "Sure," Aramis replied, taunting d'Artagnan with an inexplicable grin.  "I don't think he's broken his fast, he might come quicker if I tell him you're cooking."  It had been the delicious smell wafting from the kitchen that had drawn Aramis.  Yet another change among the new Inseparables - d'Artagnan had barely been able to boil water prior to Aramis' sojourn in Douai.  "Where did you learn to cook?"

"Andorra," d'Artagnan said briefly, and without inflection.

Aramis' curiosity spiked; he had not expected a precise location.  "What happened in Andorra?"

d'Artagnan's lips tightened.  "Porthos and Athos were wounded."

Aramis sat down again, careful not disturb the sleeping cadet.  "And for that reason you learned to cook?"

The dark eyes slid away on a sigh.  "The medical tents were always at the back of the lines and for the first year, our camp was always on the front lines.  There was ..." d'Artagnan's gaze lost focus.  "There was some rivalry among the ranks.  We were considered the dilettantes, come late to the ball in order to cause a stir.  And, to be honest, few of us had as much battle experience as those in the core of the army.  More than the conscripted, but far less than the Swiss mercenaries and the generals' own battalions.  For Athos, it was a long battle of wills; I did not realize war was equally about internal as well as external politics.   I thought he was going to be cashiered any number of times."

d'Artagnan fell silent.  Aramis got up and refilled the mug with straight brandy, setting it with care in front of his brother.  No one had spoken of this, though it shed some light on the authority Athos commanded without thought. 

"Where was I?"  d'Artagnan pulled his attention back to his immediate surroundings.  "Andorra."  He took a deep, silent breath before continuing soberly, "It just so happened that Athos got himself shot off his horse and Porthos stepped on a bit of fragile, unexploded ordinance that suddenly found new life and nearly took off his leg.  It was often easier and far less time consuming to cook near the wounded.  Lots of companies did it, but no one in our unit had that skill, so I asked Serge to teach anyone who was willing to learn.  It meant we could make sure our wounded were getting the care they needed.  We'd all been around you long enough to have picked up a few pointers along the way, so we just needed to learn to cook."   

"Porthos would have lost his foot if d'Artagnan hadn't brilliantly maneuvered the surgeons," Athos said quietly, reaching over Aramis' shoulder to take the mug sitting in the middle of the table. 

Neither of the seated Musketeers had heard him enter. 

He made a face, turned and dumped out the brandy before refilling it from the tea kettle nestled among the hearth coals.  "Are we telling war stories?"  He moved around the table to take a seat beside d'Artagnan, eyeing him before flicking his gaze to Brujon with a raised eyebrow.

"Up all night with Clarimont, then grave digging."

"Alone?"

"No," Aramis put in hurriedly, "Porthos and I took turns keeping an eye on him."

Athos sighed.  "I had a detail on that."

"Yes, but Brujon refused their help when they finished."

" Absolon, Louvel and Clarimont during the night.  Marrock and Raulf probably will not live through the day."  Athos was careful not to jar the tabletop as he planted his elbows and dropped his head in his hands.  "Constance thinks there may be more."  

"Who?" Aramis asked sharply. 

"Devereux almost for certain, possibly Fiacre and Étienne," d'Artagnan supplied.  "She's concerned for Franck as well." 

"Dev?  I thought the amputation had gone well?"  Athos had stolen an hour from their midnight vigil to make the rounds of the wounded.

"Sylvie says the bleeding has started again, he's slipped back into insensibility," Aramis reported.  "A blessing actually.  We've gone through both the king's and Feron's personal pain arsenals already.  I've men searching out every Paris apothecary we can find, but it's too little too late.  Those first hours are crucial." 

"How come nobody tol' me we were havin' a meetin'?"  Porthos sniffed the air as he entered the room.  "Wha's cookin'?"

"Shhhhhhh."  d'Artagnan lifted an arm to point down at the sleeping cadet in their midst as Porthos slid onto the bench next to Aramis. 

"Oh," Porthos stage whispered, "didn't notice 'em.  Athos, when do we have'ta leave?"

"We need to be at the palace by sun high.  The funeral is scheduled for 3:00 o'clock."

Aramis looked up from fiddling with a loose splinter in the table.  "Very biblical.  Who chose that hour?"

"I did.  And I intended it to be significant."  Athos swallowed the rest of the tea in the cup and set it back on the table.  "The war might not be over yet, but it's been Tréville's  hand that has safely guided France to an eminent victory.  I wish he had lived to see it come to fruition."  He rose, squeezing d'Artagnan's shoulder.  "When this is done, we will bury our own, then end this with Grimaud."

"Athos, about that ..."

Athos arched an eyebrow when d'Artagnan trailed off.  "About what?"

"I need ... four pauldrons."

"Only four?" Athos inquired dryly, his gaze flitting to Brujon.

"Not for him; for Clairmont and the rest of the cadets.  They deserve to be buried as Musketeers."

"You're right," Athos replied, surprising his protégé, though in the next instant he thoroughly dashed d'Artagnan's hopes.  "But the extras we had were locked away in the armory."

"Used our own ordinance to set the first bomb there," Porthos said gloomily.  "Nothing but splinters left.  Though I did find a strong box, kicking through the wreckage of the barracks."

"A strong box?  Constance had one she brought with her from the Bonacieux residence."

"Thought it might be hers.  I left it on the bar in the tavern, didn't see her anywhere."

"Last I saw her, she was on her way to the cellar to relieve Elodie." Aramis pushed off the table.

"I looked around where I found the box, but didn't find no key."

"It may be on that key ring she carries around, not that it matters."  d'Artagnan did not much care about the box, though it was at least a momentary diversion.  "I don't think she kept anything valuable in it."

"We can always pry it open if she wants," Aramis remarked.   "Any orders for us, Captain?"  He followed Athos to the door. 

"Keep this place intact, stay out of trouble and be at the palace at noon.  I will meet you at the Louvre if I am not back before then." 

"Where are you going?" d'Artagnan half started up from the bench, intending to follow as well, but Brujon stirred and he sank back down.  "Athos, you can't go searching for Grimaud alone!"

The captain's lips twitched with nearly the same smile Aramis had tossed at d'Artagnan.  "You are not _yet_ Captain of the Musketeers, brother.  But as it happens I have too much to do to go hunting Grimaud before the conclusion of this afternoon's business."  Athos tipped his hat and pushed open the door.

Aramis, with a glance over his shoulder, assured them Athos would have a shadow whether he liked it or not.  d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief. 

"I'll stay here, if ya wanna take the box to Constance," Porthos offered, rising to scrounge bread and cheese from among the food supplies sent over from the palace kitchens. 

"There's nothing in it but her old marriage ring and some dried flowers she carried at our wedding." 

"It was a lot heavier than those couple'a things would indicate," Porthos tossed back conversationally.  "Maybe she saved up a fortune while we were gone.  Go find out, 'cause she's not stealin' my _livres_ to feed us again if she's sitting on a tidy pile of her own."  He added a grin to his voice lest d'Artagnan take offense to his teasing, though Porthos was dead serious.  He had recently discovered a grand reason to save his hard-earned money.  Her name was Marie-Cessette, and her mother was going to be his wife, though Elodie did not know that quite yet.  "I'll look after your nestling; make sure to wake and feed 'em 'fore it's time to leave."

d'Artagnan hesitated.  "He's having a hard time."

Porthos squinted across the table as he sat down again.  "Dried a few'a your tears in my day, pup; you oughta know a wet shoulder don't scare me."  And just laughed at the half-hearted, under-the-table kick.  "Christophe'll have somp'in you can use fer a pry bar if the key is lost," he added by way of encouraging d'Artagnan out the door. 

The metal box d'Artagnan found on the end of the bar _was_ a lot heavier than he expected.  He hefted it and headed for the cellar stairs, though the door creaked open as he reached for it.   Constance, a basin of dark water on one hip and bundle of sheets under the opposite arm, appeared on the threshold.  d'Artagnan snatched at the heavy door she was bracing with a foot and dropped the box to take her burdens. It clattered to the floor with a distinctively heavy thump.

 "That needs to get emptied out back," Constance informed her spouse.  "Dev's gone," she added matter-of-factly.  "God, in His mercy, took him gently."  The former lady-in-waiting puffed out a breath to blow back the hair sticking to her forehead.  "d'Artganan--" she reached out to stay her husband with a hand on his forearm when he took the bowl and turned instinctively to do her bidding.  "Is this what war is like?  Real war?"

For a moment he did not turn back, her question raising goose bumps up and down his spine, but she deserved an answer.  He moved the basin so he could hold it with one arm just as Constance had and turned to slip the other around her waist.  It took a bit of physical cajoling to draw her against him where she could rest her head against his chest, if only for this moment they stole together.  He could feel the weariness dragging at her and rested his chin lightly on top of her head. 

"Honestly, war is rarely this intense.  Battle usually lasts no more than a day or two before one side or the other withdraws and moves on.  And then it's either follow - and march endlessly - or wait endlessly,  until the next would-be contingent comes along to try and take back the territory.  This has been...brutal."    

"And it's Frenchman against Frenchman!"  Constance would have wailed, but she was too worn out to do much more than exhale the exclamation on a weary breath. 

"According to Athos, this not at all uncommon among royals.  Succession is a precarious thing." 

"When will it stop?"

"Soon."  d'Artagnan kissed the crown of her head.  "Orléans has poured every _livre_ he has into building some monstrosity of a _chateau_ somewhere in Chambord; he's penniless.  With Lorraine dead and Grimaud as good as dead, he has no backing.  I expect his demise will be the queen's first order of business after we lay Tréville to rest today.  Which translates to no more than a day or two." 

Constance shuddered.  "There was a man, last night, in the store room when I went to gather supplies.  He had a knife point broken off in his chest.  He let me pull it out, but he was gone when I turned around.  Vanished; as if into thin air."

"One of ours?" d'Artagnan demanded.

"No, he wore a hood and appeared much like he disappeared; suddenly and without warning."  She did not add that he'd caught her in a moment of raw emotion following the devastating loss of Clairmont, who'd been one of her favorites. 

"How did he get in?  Where did he come from?"  d'Artagnan sidled them over to a counter so he could rid himself of the basin and put both arms around his trembling wife. 

"I don't know."

The Musketeer was silent for a long moment.  "There is an outside door to the cellar, Aramis and I came through it when Christophe and his men were holding Tréville and Porthos hostage."  d'Artagnan turned, caught sight of a cadet and ordered him to find and guard the cellar door.  "I'm sorry, in all the chaos last night, it never occurred to me."  His blood ran cold at the thought of what could have happened, though Constance would have gutted any man attempting to molest her.   She was an expert with that knife she wore sheathed at the small of her back. 

"I asked him to stay, told him we would make up a pallet for him, and when I turned around ... he was gone.  Just gone.  I thought ... I thought perhaps I'd hallucinated the whole episode."  She put a hand to her head.  "And you ..." Her chin tipped up in order to search d'Artagnan's face.  "You've lived like this for four years.  No wonder you are so changed."

"Not so changed I hope, that you no longer find me dangerously attractive."

His attempt to lighten the mood had her lips curving in a smile.  "Right now, I'm very glad you're dangerous."  She hefted the slipping ball of blood-soaked sheets under her arm and rose on tiptoe to plant a kiss on her tall war hero's lips. "I must get these in a kettle to soak.  Promise me you will not die here on the streets of Paris after surviving four years of war."

"Today is not our day to die," d'Artagnan repeated, with all the arrogance of imperishable youth.  "Nor is tomorrow or the next day."  He extracted the sheets from under her arm before she realized what he was doing.  "Porthos found your strong box in the rubble of the garrison.  Hope you didn't have anything breakable in it.  No holes, but it does have a few dents,"  he said over his shoulder as he hooked the iron swing bearing the kettle of steaming water with a booted foot.  He swung it from over the fire and dropped the mess into the cauldron.   

"Where?" Diverted, Constance clapped her hands in delight.  She'd assumed everything they'd owned had been destroyed in the blast and all consuming fires. 

"I don't know where, he just said--"

"No," she interrupted, "I meant ... never mind."  Her gaze lit on the iron box d'Artagnan had dropped on the floor next to their feet.  Pulling the keys off her belt, she flipped through the array, pulled one out, knelt and inserted it into the lock.  It turned easily, they both heard the snick, but the lid would not budge. 

Nor could even the two of them together pry it open when d'Artagnan came to help.  He lifted it to a table, but still no luck. 

"It will have to wait," he said reluctantly, "Unless there's something in it that we could use right now."

"No, just some keepsakes and a little a money I've put aside from your pay."  Constance sighed her frustration.  "Our marriage lines and your infrequent letters from the front."  She'd found her own letters to d'Artagnan at the bottom of a trunk that had followed him home, eventually, from their last deployment in Bayonne.  And put them away in her box thinking that perhaps someday, they might want to revisit the experience of their four-year separation, two months into married life.

"Why's it so heavy?" d'Artagnan returned to poke at the air pockets in the immersed sheets with a long stick, the water turning pink, then red.

"Oh, I put bricks in it to dissuade anyone who thought to make off with it quickly and easily.  Your old pauldron is in there too."

"Bricks," d'Artagnan repeated, and then, "my old pauldron?"

"I thought it might be something of value to you someday, if only sentimental.  It took awhile to earn it after all."

d'Artagnan left off poking at the sheets and came back to lay a hand on the box with a speculative look.  "Porthos is in the kitchen with Brujon, see if he can get this thing open.  If anyone comes looking for me, I'll be back in a short while." 

"Where are you going?"

d'Artagnan, threading his way through the tavern tables and benches, was already halfway to the front door.  "To Athos' apartment; I have an idea."

"Francois, go with him," she ordered the first Musketeer she saw.  Francois followed her husband out the door without even a questioning glance.  Constance took up the stick d'Artagnan had abandoned and stirred soap into her laundry.

***

Rafts of wavering candles floated at the edges of the rectangular darkness, casting eerie shadows through the pillared archways, though the darkness at the center remained thick and heavy as a Parisian fog.  In the unadulterated silence, he heard a massive door creak, the tattoo of slow, measured footsteps, the hiss of each candle flaring to life as fifteen more joined hundreds of flickering companions.  The sound of beads sliding through fingers so familiar with the ritual the noise was nearly inaudible in a place where every click and whisper was magnified by the superb architectural acoustics. 

d'Artagnan, though, had identified the intruder even before the murmur of prayers dating back to antiquity ruffled both the silence and, somehow, the darkness as well.  Almost, he thought fancifully, as if Aramis were a da Vinci saint stepping from his canvas mooring, the glow of his aura announcing his identity. 

A cedar and bergamot-scented zephyr wafted the air as Aramis' presence created a small island of warm incandescence in the middle of the chilly darkness.  d'Artagnan realized with a start, his companion had always manifested this light, he'd just never seen it in quite the same way before.   His garments, the clothes d'Artagnan had christened Aramis' pilgrimage outfit, carried the chill of the night, though the arm inside the full-sleeved shirt was warm and comforting pressed against d'Artagnan. 

They sat in silence for uncounted heartbeats, drawing solace and support from just being together. 

Aramis' voice, when he spoke finally, was little more than a rustle of air, barely a whisper of sound.  "I would never have guessed you would find succor in a dark cathedral in the middle of the night."  He pressed closer when d'Artagnan leaned into his side.  "Why here?" 

"I don't know; my feet brought me here."

Brujon had found Aramis drinking alone, feeling sorry for himself, since he'd been certain his three companions had been spooning with their women.  The cadet had stayed behind, at d'Artagnan's command, though he had adhered only to the spirit of the law rather than the letter and stayed far enough behind to be able to report d'Artagnan's whereabouts to another of the Inseparables. 

"Perhaps because it feels closer to heaven and those we've lost."  Aramis was grateful for the human contact as well.  "But - in the middle of the night?"  He'd sent Brujon to his bedroll with a sleeping potion he was relatively certain the young man would ignore, before heading for the cathedral himself. 

"I could not sleep and did not want to wake Constance.  She's exhausted."

They were all broken in body and spirit, at a loss as to how rebuild from the sifting ash that had been their home.  There had been no triumph in the defeat of their enemies earlier in the day, no comfort in the words Aramis had pronounced with such authority over the multiple mounds of earth marring the singed grass.  They had drifted off separately as they'd left the small Musketeer cemetery. 

To d'Artagnan, it had felt like the beginning of the end. 

"You are stewing, I can feel it ... d'Artagnan, no one could have foreseen Grimaud's actions."

d'Artagnan did not answer immediately, and it was clear when he did, that it had been preying on his mind.  "We knew the nature of the beast, we'd been touched by the blackness at the heart of it, and yet we failed to respect it as an adversary.  Grief is not a reason, it's an excuse, and a poor one at that.  Tréville would have demanded our pauldrons for our rank stupidity." 

d'Artagnan could not look at the ruins without a shaft of guilt.  They should have maintained their vigilance, kept their wits about them, should have known better than to leave the garrison unguarded and vulnerable. 

Aramis had no refutation for the bald truth. 

"What's done cannot be undone.  Those lives will haunt me into eternity."

Aramis, too, took time to gather his scattered thoughts before quoting quietly,  "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

d'Artagnan had leaned forward over his knees, breaking contact.  Aramis laid an arm lightly along the tense spine, sliding his fingers beneath the overlong hair to knead the taut muscles at the base of the skull. 

"I know this to be certain truth, d'Artagnan.  They do not need or want our guilt holding them on this plane of existence." 

He was contemplatively quiet for several more long moments, considering his words, for Aramis had learned to parse what he shared of his experiences walking between worlds.  "Because of your actions, those young men did not cross over reluctantly or with any trepidation."  He paused again, wondering if he should offer a word picture of what he had been privileged to witness, then chose to continue.   "Perhaps it will ease your mind to know that a new generation of Inseparables went side by side into eternity." 

Because the youthful war hero sitting next to him in the darkness had learned it was not always a matter of head over heart.  d'Artagnan had recovered what he'd gone looking for in Athos' apartment and sent four young men off on a new journey wearing the old pauldrons of the still flesh and blood Inseparables. 

~*~


	9. What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimaud is dead, the battle for Paris decisively decided in favor of the Musketeers, the exhausted crew of the garrison temporarily bedded down in Christophe's tavern. Athos and Sylvie are packed and ready to begin their journey into parenthood on the morrow, Porthos returns to the front as a newly appointed general, and Aramis will depart to take up his assignment as First Minister. d'Artagnan, though, is not quite reconciled to the diaspora. As a result, his mind spins up an unconquered, recurring nightmare. 
> 
> This is the story of Roncesvalles - because GreenWaters challenged me to think outside the box.

War Heroes

 

9

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

Constance sat bolt upright in bed, her hand pushing instinctively against the warm spot that was her husband, though he was not curled around her as usual.  In that unguarded waking moment, she knew herself to be a bit relieved Athos and Sylvie were leaving in the morning.  With Porthos returning to the front and Aramis moving to quarters at the palace, she might at last tether her wandering spouse to their own bed.  Wherever that ended up being while the garrison was in the process of rebuilding. 

As the dead sleep of exhaustion began to lift, though,  and her mind to process, the sound came to her like a whispering wind, a low keening underscored by sounds she could not identify.  Moon shadows cloaked the small room in darkling patches and Constance rubbed at the sleep sand obscuring her vision, turning her head right, then left, in an effort to identify the strange sound. 

Likely she would need to fetch her wandering spouse back from Athos' or Porthos' room, though they were both sleeping with companions these days.  Perhaps he'd gone downstairs so as not to wake her with his restless tossing and turning, despite the fact she'd told him, repeatedly, she'd rather he stay in bed and wake her, then disappear. 

Or perhaps one of the wounded sleeping below in the tavern had woken in pain.  Maybe the sound had roused d'Artagnan and he'd gone to investigate.  She scooted to her side of the bed and felt around for flint and steel to light the lamp on the bedside table. 

An animalistic howl splintered the air as light speared the darkness.  The lamp smashed to the floor,  Constance jumping out of bed to stamp out the illegitimate child of the spilled oil with her bare feet, heart in her throat. 

d'Artagnan had not left the room.

The space was not large enough to get up any speed, but her slippery feet almost pitched her over her spouse when she rounded the bed and had to grab the covers to keep from sliding into him.  d'Artagnan, on his hands and knees, did not pause in his frantic scrabbling at the moonlight spilling over the windowsill to paint a bright patch on the rough wooden floorboard. 

Constance stifled an embryonic scream. 

"d'Artagnan?" She fell to her knees and grabbed for his hands, only to draw back with a yelp.  They were spiked like porcupine quills, chunky splinters protruding from torn and bloody fingernails, sticky crimson trails staining his fingers and palms.  He had been down here for some time if the blood was already congealing. 

"d'Artagnan!" she tried again, urgently, sinking her fingers into the knotted muscles of his bare shoulders.  "Wake up!" 

He smacked her hands away as if they were nothing but twigs. 

Undaunted, she reached to frame his face, but d'Artagnan jerked away, chuffing what sounded like _aramisaramisaramis_ as he resumed tearing mindlessly at the floorboards.

No nightmare was going to steal her husband from her in this manner.  Constance took a moment to reconnoiter as Tréville had taught her to do, her mind touching on each object as she quartered the small room mentally, before scrambling over the bed to hunker down behind her spouse in the narrow space between the bed and wall. 

"d'Artagnan," she whispered, as seductively as possible given her breath was whistling through her throat like wind in a dry well, and beat back the panic fueling her racing heartbeat.  "I need you."  She rubbed sensuously against his back, sliding her hands up into his dripping hair, kneading the back of his skull as she cradled her hips against the backs of his powerful thighs.  "Come back to me, my love."

His hands stilled, and then his head turned over his shoulder. Without warning he reared back with a guttural screech, slamming her against the wall. 

Constance saw stars. 

Then nothing.   

Next door, Athos sat bolt upright in bed, too, every nerve in his body twitching with terror, the darkness reverberating tensely with whatever had woken him.  Beside him, Sylvie sat up as well, drawing the sheet up over her chest. 

"What?" she put a hand out, but he was out of bed already, snatching up clothes with unerring accuracy even in the dark. 

It came again; the sound of a frantic, wounded animal sluicing the night with its pain. 

"That's d'Artagnan." Sylvie was pulling her nightgown back on even as she slid out of the bed, striking a spark to light a carrying candle.    

Athos knew exactly what that sound meant and rather thought he should have been prepared for it.  Cursing his preoccupation with Grimaud, he dragged on his britches and followed his flitting wife out the door of Christophe's room.  The next door on the hallway slammed back on its hinges with a crash to wake the entire tavern, if by some chance someone had slept through d'Artagnan's bloodcurdling screams. 

Porthos, only a step behind, elbowed past Sylvie. 

The moon shadows shrank back as she held up her candle, revealing Porthos and d'Artagnan knee to knee on the floor between the bed and the window, blood dripping onto the wooden floorboards between them.  d'Artagnan's lifted, bloody wrists were clasped in Porthos' big hands, his shoulders wrenched back like a captured wild thing, eyes glazed and feral, every muscle rigid with resistance. 

Athos was over the bed in a leap and a bound, hands flowing over the flesh and bone of the silent, crumpled body at the base of the wall.  "Nothing broken," he reported, blowing out a breath as he scooped Constance into his arms. 

"Oh thank God!" Sylvie breathed through the hand clamped over her mouth to hold back the vocalization of her horror. 

Light flared brighter as Elodie, holding her wrapper closed with one hand and a lamp lifted high in the other, paused on the threshold. 

"OUT!"  Porthos roared, attempting, unsuccessfully, to keep d'Artagnan from head butting him.  "EVERYBODY OUT!" 

"Holy Mary, what's happened in here?" When no one else jumped to obey her new husband's command, Elodie stepped into the room, accidentally kicking the fallen lamp so it skittered across the floor to bang against the low chest of drawers across from the foot of the bed.  "Is Constance hurt?"

"Fine," Constance muttered blearily, though consciousness yet walked a fine line. "'m'fine, not hu-rt," she mumbled, smacking Athos' chin with her head as she tried to get her feet under her.  He rose, lifting her with him, keeping his arms around her as she swayed.

"What's wrong with him?" Constance demanded, her quavering voice rising half an octave as lucidity gained a better foothold.  "Why can't I wake him?"

"He'll be alright, I promise." Athos turned her in his arms, carefully cradling the back of her head so her face lay against his heaving chest, away from the sight of her apparently deranged husband.  Porthos had given up trying to move d'Artagnan off the floor, though he'd clamped the youth's wrists in one hand in order to block d'Artagnan's mindless attempts to throw himself at his captor. 

"Oh God, Athos, I can't take this too."  Constance folded as if her knees had buckled. 

Athos tightened his arms.  "Easy now ... easy ... easy."  He stroked her hair, deliberately calming his own breath in an attempt to diminish her panic, though he was not too far behind her in that department.  Their plans were set, he could not now, at this late date, tell Sylvie they could not embark upon their planned journey.  But neither could both he and Porthos up and leave d'Artagnan in this state.  Sometimes it took days to bring him around from this particular nightmare. 

"I'm ssssss... sorrrrrry ....."  Constance stuttered, as tears erupted.  The ex-lady-in-waiting-to-the-queen had had to pull herself together over and over again over the last four years, most especially over the last three days, and yet again after her own close brush with the Hand of Death. She could not pull back from the edge as fear and fatigue blasted through all her carefully constructed barriers.  

Waking to find her husband descended into madness was the proverbial last straw. 

"You're entitled," Athos said, as he hefted her into his arms to knee-crawl back across the bed.  Porthos was not moving d'Artagnan without help and they needed the room cleared to have enough space to maneuver.  "But I need you to do this somewhere else so we can take care of d'Artagnan."  He put just a touch of command into both tone and words, making his voice sympathetically brusque as he put her on her feet beside Sylvie.  Who instantly slipped an arm around her shoulders. 

"Elodie, take the candle; leave the lamp."

Constance found her feet moving against her will, Sylvie's arm around her shoulders, Elodie's hand on her other elbow, the pair drawing her wil-you-nil-you out of the room.  d'Artagnan's harsh, animal panting followed her down the hall even when her mind told her it was no longer physically possible to hear.    

She eluded her companions simply by dropping like a stone to her fundament at the top of the stairs, the tears, now that they'd escaped, soaking her nightdress as Constance slumped to bury her face in her knees. 

"Budge up," Sylvie prodded, sandwiching Constance in the middle as Elodie, still silent, sat down on the other side. 

"I may be new to _this_ particular scenario," Elodie said quietly, tipping the candle to pour out enough wax to seat it in the middle of the stair below them.  "But trust me, the _scenario_ is not new to me.  I watched d'Artagnan and Porthos with Athos back in our little forest village, they were like a pair of mother bears dragging him back from the poison and the infection in that shoulder wound.  They'll bring d'Artagnan back too."

"Poison?" Sylvie echoed. 

"Infection?" Constance sobbed.  "Of course it became infected.  MEN!" Her sobs increased in volume as her rather vivid imagination instantly began producing reasons for her spouse's dementia. 

Brujon peered hesitantly around the corner.  "Uhmmmm ... everything alright, _Madame_ d'Artagnan?"

"Uhhhhhh..."  Elodie leapt into the breach, though awkwardly, "A mouse--"

"Nightmare," Sylvie abrogated, repressing an inelegant snort at the thought of the Queen's Musketeer falling apart over a mouse.  "Nothing to worry about.  We're all fine, but since you're up, we could use a little brandy, and mugs, too, please.  Much more lady-like than swigging from the bottle, don't you think?"

Brujon made no attempt to hide his surprise.  "Uhmmmm," he said again, with obvious reluctance,  "some tea with the brandy?"

"Thank you, no; just bring the decanter from behind the bar.  I'll square it with Christophe in the morning."

"Yes ma'am."  Brujon's frown disappeared from view. 

"Oh Brujon?"

It was still firmly in place when his head popped back around the corner.

"Please tell the others everything's under control, no need for further reinforcements."

"Right, I will do that."  Brujon and his skeptical frown retreated. 

"See," Sylvie said practically, "men are occasionally good for one or two things.  Besides frightening us to death."  She stroked her hand up and down Constance's backbone.  "They ..." She paused to consider.  "Well, they ... I'm sure..."

"Porthos delivered my baby," Elodie offered.  "Right in the middle of a battle with a crazed batch of deserters intent on taking back the gold we stole from them."

"Gold?" Sylvie glanced at their companion with considerably more respect that she'd managed to summon thus far.  The ethereal female looked more like a fey faery princess with her frothy golden curls and tiny frame, than a woman of substance, though Porthos had indicated Elodie was a fine archer.  "You  speak of infection, poison, stolen gold and deserters practically in one breath, as though all these things were common occurrences!"

"You stole their gold?" This was enough to stop Constance's sobs mid-hiccup.  "You stole their gold, then got into a battle with deserters over it?"  She turned her face to stare incredulously at this new sister.   She'd done some crazy things in the last four years,  not the least of which had been inveigling the War Minister to participate in one of her crazy revenge plots on the Red Guard.  She had occasionally had to employ d'Artagnan's old sword and pistol, but stolen gold and rabid deserters were beyond her experience. 

"Well, we didn't actually steal it _per se_ , we ran across it while searching the forest for an amenable place to set up camp.  No one was there to claim it, we considered it finders keepers. Used it to buy what we couldn't makeshift for ourselves." 

Sylvie read Elodie's eloquent shrug for the sloughing off it was.  The blonde-tressed archeress was clearly far more than the sum of her parts, frothy curls notwithstanding. 

Typically, the men had not spoken of their trip to Epesse.  Athos had returned grim-eyed and pale as a ghost, but upright and functioning, despite the black sling he'd been wearing on their return.  Sylvie had stopped questioning when the shaggy head had swung around bearing the mien of _Athos the Unreadable_ , and threaded an arm through his elbow to hold him in place as he'd turned to stalk away.  Then soothed the savage beast with breath-stealing kisses, to which he'd surrendered, though he'd given only part of himself to the diversion.  She'd known his mind had been far away. 

"Will you tell us about Epesse?  We did not know Athos had been poisoned, was d'Artagnan injured also?"

"No, no.  No one else sustained injury and if not for your men, and Porthos, we might have fallen victim to the deserters, but the Musketeers fought right alongside us.  While our village was very self-sufficient, I'm sure their assistance saved many lives."

Constance sat up.  "How was Athos poisoned?"

"You must understand we were women without protection and some of us ... well, some of us were fiercer than others."  Elodie leaned her head against the wall.  "The Musketeers came hunting a man named Grimaud, but there had been no male other than Bastian in the camp for well over a month.  We'd found him injured in the forest and allowed him to stay because we thought he was harmless. Turned out he was one of the deserters, but that's another story.  Athos was ... I don't know ... suspicious, or at least more suspicious than the others.  He kept asking and asking if we'd seen this man Grimaud and watching for the answers.  Finally, Therese broke down and said she'd seen a man in a cabin in the forest some little distance from the camp.  Athos was insistent--" 

"Ladies?" Aramis, hat in hand, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, startling the trio.  "What a sight the three of you are."  He bowed, clasping the hat to his heart.  "May I ask why you are occupying the stairs at this advanced hour of the night?"

"Are you just coming in?" Constance demanded, swiftly gathering her composure as she wiped away tears with the back of her hand. 

"Not that it's any of your concern, _Madame_ d'Artagnan, but yes.  Why are you crying?"  Aramis felt that prickle of premonition he'd inherited from his mother. "What's wrong?  Did something happen to our war hero?"  The hat was on his head and he was up the stairs in three quick hops, stepping around the candle and over the women with his long legs. 

Sylvie caught him by a boot, nearly tripping him before he splayed a hand against the wall to catch his balance.  "You can't go in there; they kicked us out."

Aramis opened his mouth.  And closed it again.  "I'll just see if I can ... lend a hand."

"He was calling for you, I think; at least, it sounded like he was repeating your name over and over.  Though I can't think why."  Constance grimaced.  "Maybe you'd better go in."

Aramis tapped and entered without waiting for a response, closing the door behind himself as he heard the ladies greet Brujon, apparently returning with libations.  "What the hell happened?" He was across the room in two long steps. 

"Nightmare."  Delivered through Athos' clenched teeth.  

Between them, they had managed to relocate d'Artagnan from the floor to the bed, though d'Artagnan had fought like a wild thing.  His wrists were manacled between Athos and Porthos now, both struggling to hold on to their crazed companion.  Every muscle and tendon across the ripped chest and abdomen was engaged, biceps bulging as the youth struggled without volition to free his hands, all the while repeating in a low, insistent drone ... _aramisaramisaramisaramis._..

And then, without warning, the resistance was gone, in the middle of an _ara..._ d'Artagnan's eyes rolled back in his head, the rigid muscles went slack and he was limp as wet laundry between the pair of war heroes.

They'd been prepared for it apparently.  Porthos scooped up the suddenly pliant body, Athos rose, quickly straightened, then flipped back, the tangled sheet and blanket, waited as Porthos inserted their youngest between the bedclothes, then retrieved the bloody wrists while Porthos drew the linens back up. 

This was not the first time they'd practiced the maneuver, Aramis guessed.  "What's this got do with me?"

"Good question.  Porthos and I would like to know the answer to that as well." Athos sat down on the side of the bed, keeping hold of d'Artagnan's hands.  Porthos began ransacking the room for the emergency supplies Constance always kept close at hand. 

Aramis tentatively sat down opposite Athos.  "Merciful Mother, he's practically cold enough to burn." He'd leaned forward to touch d'Artagnan's face and almost yanked his hand back at the contact.   

"Yes, and likely in a few minutes he will be _hot_ enough to burn."  d'Artagnan's body seemed to cycle rapidly through repeated stages of cold and heat every time he fell into this hellhole of a nightmare.   They assumed it was because he was reliving the four days he had been missing, in microcosm, though d'Artagnan never spoke of this dream.  Daytime temperatures, though, had soared into sweltering, then dropped sometimes as much as thirty degrees at night. 

"What happened to his hands?"

Porthos turned back to the bed, lips twitching into a scowl.  "Tonight it was the floorboards.  Sometimes it's the walls?"

"Christ."  Aramis peered at the bloody hands before raising an eyebrow at Athos. 

Athos experienced a rare moment of dithering.  He was used to making quick decisions and snapping off subsequent orders in the heat of battle.  This was different - a battle, yes - but one he had no command over.  He and Porthos would stand shoulder to shoulder with d'Artagnan while he fought, but it had been evident from the first time this had happened, only d'Artagnan could break the cycle and free himself.   

It was Porthos who answered again, over his shoulder, as he resumed his depredations upon the room.  "We think it's 'cause he's ... tryin' to get out." 

"Out of what?"  Aramis reached over to appropriate d'Artagnan's hands. 

Athos let him, reluctantly, and without answering the question. 

"d'Artagnan?"  Pitching his voice to soothing, Aramis stacked the torn, scraped hands and began to chafe them between his own, carefully avoiding the jutting splinters.  "Can you hear me?  I'm right here.  We're in Christophe's inn.  Everyone's safe.  Constance is fine, you saved her life."  He glanced helplessly at Athos.  "Stabbing in the dark here.  A little guidance would be helpful.

Athos, equally powerless, could only shrug.  "He's locked in the nightmare that was Roncesvalles.  We have no idea why he calls for you, though every time this happens, he repeats your name like it's a mantra." 

"What happened at Roncesvalles?"  Aramis' head swiveled between Athos and Porthos, who had returned to the bed carrying the bathing basin and a strip of soft cloth.  Both of them looked away.  "While the two of you vacillate," he snapped, "d'Artagnan is losing ground.  What happened at Roncesvalles?"

"We were captured, but not together." Porthos responded instinctively to that tone.  "It got ... complicated."

"He was tortured?"

"In a manner of speaking," Athos supplied woodenly. 

The hot Spanish sun beat down punishingly, parching his throat and making speech difficult.  He shook his head, squelching the insane need to shout for Porthos, standing right in front of Aramis on the other side of the bed, though in his mind a gauzy haze of smoke and ash separated them.  He was back in Spain, watching the carrion crows circling on an updraft even before the stench had reached him on the back of a valley breeze. 

If the memories were still so vivid for him, what must they be like in d'Artagnan's nightmares?   

d'Artagnan's eyelids twitched and a low moan preceded another round of droning.  "Araaaaaaaamissssssssss ... Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...misssssssssss

Aramis turned the tanned face toward him and shoved his fingers through the sweat-soaked dark hair, leaning down so he could press his cheek against d'Artagnan's cold face.  "I'm right here, pup,  right here.  Can you feel my face against yours?"

"Aramissssssssss ..." Followed by a panting cry as d'Artagnan surged off the bed.  "Can't do this!  NO!  Don't leave me!"  And then he was gone again, the contorted features melting into blank and slack, blood trickling from the side of his mouth where he'd bitten his lip. 

Goosebumps rose all along Aramis' arms, his spine tingling.  He knew this plea, had heard this cry before - in his _own_ nightmares.  He remembered it vividly.  In the dream, he'd briefly felt d'Artagnan's physical presence standing next to him, waves of terror pouring off the youthful Musketeer.  He'd woken in a cold sweat, rolled off his thin mattress to his knees and spent the rest of the night in prayer for his three friends, but mostly for d'Artagnan.  Begging God to spare their lives, end the war, and return them home safe and sound, even if he never saw them again. 

He had been agitated for four long days, unable to focus on his work, spending countless hours in the chapel in exhortation before the alter.  The abbot had assigned more hours on his knees in penance when Aramis had had to confess the sin of not letting go of his former life - yet again.  He'd been grateful for the gift of atonement, spending  the extra time sharing the fullness of his heart with God, for peace had enveloped him on the fifth night after his nightmare, like one of Porthos' bear hugs.  He'd known for certain some of his prayers had been answered, that all of them were safe, and d'Artagnan had been reunited with his brothers. 

Aramis shuddered.  "What did they do to him?"  It was a much plea as command.  "Was he raped?" the marksman rasped out.

"No.  At least not physically - or not that he told us." Athos' jaw clenched so tight Aramis could hear teeth grinding.  "But ... " 

"For God's sake, Athos, stop being coy!  What the hell happened?! "  

Porthos shuffled his feet.  "Not our story to tell.  d'Artagnan asked us not to 'n we agreed." 

"You think he'd rather die trapped in a nightmare?"

"Die?" Athos and Porthos said in startled unison.    

"Nah."  Porthos regrouped first.  "He comes back eventually, it just takes awhile."

"Wandering the astral plane is not safe," Aramis pointed out dryly.  "Even for a seasoned traveler.  And he's out there alone."

"W _hat_?" Athos demanded, instantly grasping the implication.

"Oh no." Porthos' comprehension was only a second behind.  "You're not goin' out there too.  If that's really the case, we could lose both of you!"

"Not your choice - either of you.  Nor can you do it for him." 

"Porthos is right, he's come around the others times this has happened. Two of you out traveling the astral plane will be even more dangerous."

"Does it continue to take longer and longer to rouse him?"

"Yeess," Athos admitted grudgingly.  "But let's give it some time, we'll tell you what happened."

"Yes, you will, when d'Artagnan is back in his body."

"No!" Athos said sharply.

"I've done this once before, though not purposely, and it involved d'Artagnan.  At a guess, exactly when whatever happened that caused these nightmares."

"That doesn't--"

"Whatta' ya need us to?" Porthos cut Athos off.  "We're not stopping 'im, best do whatever he says so nothin' happens to either of them."

Athos bared his teeth, but acquiesced.  " _This_ is why you are my penance," he growled, though he was more panicked than angry at the moment.  "See that you both get back here safely."

Athos slid up the bed to haul the puppy across his lap so he cradled d'Artagnan's upper body.

"Be careful," Porthos admonished as the marksman closed his eyes. 

Aramis, with his internal vision, saw the cord immediately, a thin, wavering line tethering d'Artagnan to his physical body, but the glow of it was that of a firefly blinking irregularly.  The healer touched it lightly, sending a bit of his own life force ahead of him, both to bolster the thread and alert the puppy Aramis was on his way to fetch him home. 

Porthos bit back a yelp, when, beneath the closed eyelids, he saw Aramis' eyes roll back in his head.  Water sloshed everywhere as he dropped the basin to grab their former healer, sliding around behind to wedge a knee up against Aramis' back. 

Athos bent forward, putting his lips right next to d'Artagnan's ear.  "It's time to come back," he whispered urgently.  "God is not yet ready for your particular brand of impudence, He still has things for you to do here in your body.  Come back now, Porthos is here too, and Constance still needs you.  We will fight this thing together, but you must come back to us, d'Artagnan." 

Once, long ago, d'Artagnan had done the same for him, when Athos had contracted a deadly illness.  The young Musketeer's persistent voice had nagged back into his body as he'd been contemplating walking into that beckoning pool of light. 

Athos kept up a steady stream, his words flowing like water from the rock, even after Porthos announced with quiet glee, "He's got 'em, they're both comin' around."

Porthos had felt the ebb of life force trickling from Aramis' frame, now he could feel it slowly returning as he watched d'Artagnan's hands begin to twitch inside Aramis' hold. 

Athos had no idea if it had been seconds or minutes or hours, the ribbon of time had shredded the moment he'd felt the rush of life force into d'Artagnan, now he felt the cold, pale skin next to his lips begin to warm and eventually sat up to watch the slow flush of color return.  "Don't. Ever. Do. That. Again." He sucked in air as if some supernatural phenomena had sucked it all out of the room. 

"Hallelujah!" Porthos shouted quietly, least his jubilation bring the rest of the garrison at a run, sliding back as Aramis shook himself like a wet dog.  As it was, the door slammed back against the wall again and Constance threw herself into the mix.

It took a moment to untangle the assortment of entwined limbs this caused.  Athos yielded d'Artagnan's still pliant body to his wife, though he did not move from his place on the bed.  Constance hung on, gibbering her relief in her husband's neck, as d'Artagnan tried to fit back into the unfamiliar constraints of his physical body, and Aramis slid to the foot of the bed, noting Porthos' relieved grin as he rose.

Porthos stepped over the empty basin to join Aramis, jostling him with a shoulder as he hooted softly, "As good as Grandier! Thank you!"  He engulfed Aramis in one of those much-missed, side-armed bear hugs.  "So damn glad you're back where ya belong!" 

Aramis didn't bother ducking the great smacking kiss Porthos bestowed on his forehead.  He was grateful to be back where he belonged as well. 

Sylvie and Elodie hovered in the doorway uncertainly. 

d'Artagnan, weak as a newborn pup, allowed Athos to help him sit up.  He did not have the strength to draw Constance up with him, so she slid down his slippery chest until her cheek lay against his flat abdomen.  Her arms clamped around that lean waist with enough strength for both of them, her silent tears - of gratitude now - sliding down his sweat-slick belly. 

"Food."  Athos did not direct it as a command, rather, it was a general comment, as he watched d'Artagnan like a hawk, worried the youth might slide back into that hellhole if they could not secure him in the present. 

"You okay?" Aramis touched the trembling legs beneath the blanket.

d'Artagnan tried to nod, his teeth chattering too hard to speak, but the bob sent a shaft of pain blazing through his skull like a meteor in full flight.  "Stay," he bit out, lifting a shaky hand to cram his knuckles into his right eye, bloodying half his face.  He was still too caught up in the horror of the nightmare to be ashamed of the naked need he could not begin to curb.  Oblivious to blood and splinters, he slid his other arm around his wife shoulders, so their individual tremors became shared shudders. 

"Now there's a command nobody is going to contest this morning.  Sylvie, some warm water and towels would be most helpful."  Aramis usurped authority since both Athos and Porthos were still looking nearly as shell-shocked as d'Artagnan.  "Elodie, could you put together some cheese and bread?"  Aramis, with his second sight, could see cobwebs of the dream still clinging to the youthful soul. 

Sylvie collected the upside down washbasin, barely avoiding jamming herself in the doorway with Elodie as they left the room together. 

"I am very sorry, d'Artagnan."  It was Athos who broke the first well of silence that engulfed the room.  "I've been so busy getting ready to leave, I left you to battle this yourself when I saw the signs creeping up." 

Constance hitched herself up, scowling through her tears.  "You _knew_ this might happen and you didn't think to _warn_ me?  Really?!"  She pounced across d'Artagnan, clouting Athos upside the head, the softly shrieked repetition delivered through clenched teeth, "You didn't even think to warn me!" 

Athos made no attempt to block or evade the blow, his head snapping on his neck with the force of it.  "I'm sorry," he said again, sorrow and shame coloring his voice."It was completely and unforgivably thoughtless on my part." 

"Not ... your ... fault."  d'Artagnan rested his cheek briefly on Athos' shoulder.

Constance wanted to shriek again, at full volume.  That _she'd_ been the one who'd woken to his demented demeanor, her he'd slammed against the wall, she was the one who'd been there for him - despite the fact she'd been unable to help him.  Though neither had Athos.  It had been Aramis who'd managed to wedge himself back into the inner circle, damn his handsome hide.  She was fifty shades of envy fueled by terror mixed with a healthy dose of pissed off -that her husband had turned, again, to Athos.

She settled for shooting a sniffy, squint-eyed, we'll-settle-up-later look at Athos and shifted so she could lay _her_ head on her husband's shoulder.  

d'Artagnan was still too unsettled to notice. 

The Roncesvalles memories lived like sun-cast shadows, always in the back of his mind, though he had learned to ward them off himself under normal circumstances.  The loss of Tréville, the inhumanity of Grimaud's 'present' -  the old woman's body sprawled at the entrance of the garrison tunnel - followed by the loss of the garrison and so many of their comrades, had loosed those shadows to stalk him again.  Only the constant necessity of countering the rapidly unfolding events had kept them from eclipsing his mind.  Digging Clairmont's grave had released them to circle like vultures over a pit of dead bodies painstakingly arranged to appear alive, though abandoned to rot under the blazing Spanish sun. 

Knowing sleep would break the last bonds holding them in check, d'Artagnan had made every effort to avoid it, until exhaustion had finally claimed him.  Once entangled, he'd been unable to free himself from the sticky web of the Roncesvalles legacy. 

Sylvie and Elodie returned together, Sylvie with a basket over one arm, bearing the last of their meager supply of medicinals and bandages, carrying the basin of water and towels over the other arm.  Elodie had a heavy tray with quickly warmed stew and hearty bread and cheese, in addition to several mugs threaded through the fingers of her right hand. 

"We'll have to share," she announced as she set the tray down on top of a bookcase and drew a bottle of wine from her sagging apron pocket. 

"A little wine," Athos asked, holding out a hand as he tacked on a belated, "please.  And some of the bread."  He tore the bread into small pieces, putting them into the wine before handing the mug and soaked bread to Constance.  "We found it's the only thing that stays down to begin with." 

Aramis motioned Athos up and reached across to take the basket from Sylvie, then the basin,  setting both by his feet.  He sat again as Athos took his place beside Porthos, standing at the foot of the bed. 

"Will you let me clean up your hands?"  Aramis made no move to take them, only waited as d'Artagnan gave his hands - and the bloody fingerprints all over his wife's nightgown - a cursory inspection. 

"Constance, you might want to go change," Aramis suggested quietly.  "Normalcy will go a long way to grounding in the present."

Constance fed the last bit of soaked bread to her compliant spouse who closed his eyes and sank back against the headboard.  "It will be dawn soon, I'll go get dressed," she said, excepting Sylvie's helping hand up. 

"I'll just go ... help.  In fact, I think we'll get food going to break our fast."  Elodie whisked herself to the door after the two women.  "I will keep them both occupied until you're done here."  She shut the door on her unspoken proposition, leaving her intentions hanging in the candlelit darkness. 

Athos studied the door rather than watch the proceedings on the bed.  "She's right.  This is not a tale the women need to hear, they have enough to bear already."

"They might see it differently," Aramis noted without disagreeing, as he carefully scooped up d'Artagnan's left hand.  "Do you still keep your parrying dagger honed enough to splice a hair?"

"They might," Athos acknowledged, turning to hunt for d'Artagnan's knife, "though they don't deserve to live this too; the telling alone will be enough to induce chimeras.  I'd have to go back to our room to find mine."  He found it on the dresser and handed it over, crossing his arms over his chest to still his twitching hands.  He always felt incredibly helpless in the aftermath of these events.  

"Not like any of 'em are squeamish," Porthos said, mirroring Athos' pose. 

"Fine, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it."  Athos closed the debate with an air of command, moving to take Constance's place on the bed.  He took up the abandoned mug and soaked some more bread as Aramis began cleaning the bloody fingers.  "d'Artagnan?" He too waited without prodding, until the dark eyes opened and slowly came to rest on him.  "Will you try a little more?"

d'Artagnan sighed.  "No."  He put his head back, barely able to keep it balanced on his wobbly neck.  "How long this time?"  Aramis was carefully cutting away slices of his torn fingernails. 

"Not s'long," Porthos said with genuine relief.  "Aramis knew where to go lookin' for ya 'n brought ya back real quick like.  Good thing he's stayin' around." 

"God, I'm a mess.  What am I going to do with both of you gone."  It wasn't a question, the terror still hung about d'Artagnan like the smoke of Roncesvalles. 

"We've had this conversation before; we're all a mess." Athos bent to set the mug on the floor next to the wall.  "Like the other memories we carry, this will fade with time."  He rubbed his own still-healing shoulder as he straightened.  "And - as Porthos just said, Aramis will be here."

Aramis set aside the parrying dagger, took up the length of soft cloth Porthos had unearthed and began to clean the bloody fingers.  "I was there, you know."  He spaced his next words with precision, "I    felt    your  terror, d'Artagnan.  If it was a dream, it was as vivid and real as if I had been standing right next to you."  He looked up to find the young man staring at him.  "Last year some time, I think, though time had little meaning at the abbey.  I woke in a panic one night, certain I was in the middle of a Spanish battlefield.  You were there, I knew you were there, but I could not find you." Aramis met the intent gaze.  "Except it was not a battlefield, was it?"

d'Artagnan's throat closed.  "No."

"You'd been captured."

"Yes.  My own ... stupid, impulsive ... fault," d'Artagnan grated, breaking eye contact.  His breathing had evened out, but it began to come in short gasps again.

"There was malevolence in the very air and I remember hearing voices, but as I recall, it was suffocatingly hot and dark, I could see nothing."  Aramis reached for the lacerated right hand and began plucking splinters from beneath the nails.  d'Artagnan did not even wince.  "I promise we'll keep you grounded here, we won't let it suck you in again if you want to talk about it."  He retrieved the dagger to cut away a jagged bit of fingernail on the ring finger, then touched the wedding band lightly and lifted his gaze back to d'Artagnan's.  "I know that talking about it will make it real for a time again, but at the same time, it may give the event some needed distance.  It's over, long behind you, it cannot touch you here."

d'Artagnan shuddered.  'O _h yes it can_.'  But he did not give voice to the words.  He could still feel the press of bodies surrounding him, smell the putrid stench of death as pervasively as he had on waking to find himself stuffed like a sausage into a host of bodies. The enfolding tremors continued to rack his lean frame, rippling like sea waves as entire muscle groups spasmed with increasing tension.  "I remember ... you were ... you were there.  You ... were ... you were the only reason ... I ... didn't ... go ... completely insane." Each word or pairings of words came out on a little pant of air. 

It had taken awhile after he'd first woken to find himself upright and wedged in so tightly he could move nothing but his head, to understand the mass of bodies trapping him were all dead.  And that the stench was rotting corpses.  He'd vomited the hearty breakfast Porthos had plied them with before they'd preceded the infantry through the Roncevaux Pass. 

Ahhhhhh - the missing puzzle piece.  Athos dragged in a calming breath.   This was one of their vilest secrets, one they had not spoken of even among themselves.  From the moment they'd drawn d'Artagnan's limp body up out of that hellacious pit, the topic of Roncesvalles had been taboo.  Against his will, because he put every ounce of effort he possessed into stopping the action, his head turned to meet Porthos' intent look, though he spoke to d'Artagnan.  "We don't have to talk about this." 

"Aramis is usually right about these things," Porthos reminded gruffly, "It's a wound needs cleansing if it's ta heal any time soon."  He bent to tweak a blanket-covered toe.  "Glad to have the mystery of you repeatin' Aramis' name cleared up, pup.  Should'a guessed it'd be som'in like that.  But it's up to you whether you wanna talk about it or not." 

d'Artagnan knew a thing or two about lancing a wound. 

Under the hot Spanish sun, injuries suppurated quickly.  To let a closed wound fester was to court prolonged, gruesome death; many a solider had begged a comrade for mercy to end the suffering.  Early in their deployment, Athos had been forced to deliver the _coup de grâce_ for one of their own company.  He had refused to let either d'Artagnan or Porthos accompany them as he'd carried the man out of camp, returning hours later, covered in dirt, hands and clothes stained with the blood of a friend.  He hadn't changed his garments for a month afterwards, driving home the hard-learned lesson without uttering a single word. 

Yes, d'Artagnan was very familiar with lancing wounds.  He pulled his knees to his chest, huddling in an upright fetal position, arms wrapped over his sweaty chest, chin down.  "I don't ... I don't even know where to ... start."  He was repeating himself he knew, but could not seem to hold the thoughts long enough to turn them into words and get them off his tongue. 

He did _not_ want to talk about these memories, but neither could he live with the debilitating consequences of this dream. He knew he'd been put on a horse between Athos and Porthos on more than one occasion.  Wedged there throughout a number of battles he did not remember, his horse responding to the movements of Athos' and Porthos' as if the animal knew he was incapable.    

"It was not the first time we'd been captured, though most of the previous times it had been on purpose." Athos, his jaw tight with his own memories, spread his hands over his knees, glanced once more at Porthos and began.  "General de la Force's ... intelligence," the word came out with a low hiss, "had indicated the Spanish had withdrawn from the Roncevaux Pass after decimating the valley below it.  de la Force insisted we take it.

We'd already been lessoned in his 'intelligence gathering' and quickly learned to do our own.  de la Force knew; he would occasionally ask me for advice in the daily strategy meetings, but he was willing to overlook it as long as we didn't get caught at it, or offer unsolicited opinions.  However, on this particular day, the Musketeer company was deployed as the advance guard for the infantry and ordered to stay with them or be cashiered." 

"That happened quite a lot," Porthos inserted.  "We were de la Force's Uriah."

"Uriah?" d'Artagnan turned a baffled look on Porthos. 

"An ancient biblical king desired the wife of one of his generals, so he put the man - Uriah - on the front lines in hopes of getting him killed," Athos supplied.  "It's true, we spent a lot of time front and center in the beginning, but for some reason - call it luck, fate, the hand of God - we don't seem to be easy to  kill." 

"Anyway," Porthos took up the story, "we was first into the pass and by halfway through the haze of smoke was thick enough we could barely see; the Spanish had burnt their own people outta the valley.  It cleared a little once we were through, but visibility was little more than a horse's rump in front of ya."

"We weren't ... " d'Artagnan swiped at his eyes with an arm, "we weren't much more than through the pass ... when I heard ... the sound of child ... in distress."

Porthos put out a hand, unseen by d'Artagnan, stopping Athos from taking up the narrative again.

"I veered off  ...toward the sound ... into ...  forest ... without ... without thought."

Athos planted his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his palms.  "Porthos peeled off after him," his voice sounded raw, as though the memories of that ash-filled valley had roughened his vocal chords, "leaving me, naturally, yelling after them to get their asses back where they belonged."

"Except ... he didn't just yell, Athos came after us ... so they were both ... captured as well ... because of me."  d'Artagnan's delivery was an unintentionally brilliant mimicry of Athos' old flat tone.  "Horse went right through the brush ... covering ... a pit ... threw me ... out 'the saddle ...  s'all I knew ... 'til I woke up ... in another pit."  In his dreams he heard both the horse and the child screaming.

When the pause lengthened uncomfortably, Porthos sighed.  "I'd lost 'im in the smoke, 'til I heard shots and started to'ard 'em.  The trees not only bent the sound, they made it impossible to ride in a straight line, and then there was another shot - an arquebus this time - to my left and not that far away."  He paused, remembering the scene he'd come upon as if it had happened yesterday:  Athos standing next to a branch-covered pit, gun clenched in one hand, the other clamped over his eyes.   "Athos had beat me to the rescue."  His fists clenched.  "'But there was no one to save." 

"They'd left the horse alive, both front legs broken."

Aramis added up the shots in his head -  and did not like the sum.  Athos' body language did not invite questions. 

"There was a lotta blood on the far side of the pit, but no d'Artagnan.  We started after 'em immediately, didn't even discuss it." 

"We trotted right into their reargard," Athos said matter-of-factly.  " We would have ridden up to them in any case, it really didn't matter.  Much  better chance of escape with the three of us together than one alone."   

"Except all we got was a brief glimpse'a d'Artagnan thrown over a horse as they escorted us int'a camp.  Two of 'em were leadin' the horse away.  But they made sure we saw that much."

"Camp was a large cave, or, as it turned out, a series of caves honeycombing both sides of the pass. It was a snug little command post not far from the mouth of the pass." 

"Never did get a good count, there was maybe twenty, thirty of 'em, jabbering away, laughin' like those lake loons we used t'hear out 'ta yer folks place, Aramis.  Athos wasn't translatin' anything, but his face kept gettin' tighter and tighter 'til I thought it was gonna break."

The baton passed seamlessly back to Athos.  "It took us some time to free ourselves," he said, passing over the scars he and Porthos carried from those twenty-four hours, "and three days to get to d'Artagnan.  We had no location, just a description of an arid, sandy spot in the valley and an old rock quarry filled in with sand where they were storing bodies, packed in standing as if they were alive.  They'd found it was motivating to prisoners to take out a dead body and replace it with a live one."  He passed a hand over his eyes as his stomach rolled nauseatingly.  "I don't know how you survived, shot, bleeding from that leg wound, in the broiling sun by day, unable to move," he said to d'Artagnan, jaw clenched.  "His limbs were twice their normal size when we pulled him out, head and shoulders blistered from the sun.  I did not think he would live long enough for us to get back to the army." 

d'Artagnan's shallow breathing stopped, yanking Athos and Porthos back to the present.  Aramis laid a hand on the sculpted chest.  "You're safe, remember that you are safe, you beat the odds, you're alive and well, bearing no lingering physical after-effects of your ordeal. The hold this nightmare has on you will lessen with time.  You're whole.  And well.  And safe."

d'Artagnan plucked the hand from his chest and straightened, though the cold sweat began again, streaming in little rivulets down his neck and torso.  "I was six feet ... from freedom ... six feet.  The press of bodies was ... in those first moments ... comforting.  I thought ... I thought if we just worked together ..."  He swallowed in an effort to wet his dry throat and licked his lips.  "I thought we could ... get out.  It took ... I don't know how long ... to realize they were all ... dead.  That I was ... the only one ... alive ... there were sounds ... like breathing ... and moans ... and there was movement ...  I thought ..." He put his head back again, turning his blank gaze to the ceiling, feeling the twitch of fingers against his own, the jerk of muscles in the legs squeezed against him, hearing the ghostly whispering that had sounded like waves of gossiping old men, when in reality the eerie sounds had been built-up gasses escaping decomposing bodies. 

d'Artagnan's labored breathing was the only sound in the room.

"When I finally ... understood ... that the stench was not just ... unwashed bodies, I lost it for a bit."  He'd been prepared to die.  His first battle had taught him that; friend and foe falling on every side, no more than the range of a pistol ball or the width of a blade from death.  He'd expected to die, but he'd expected to die surrounded by his brother's, not alone in a bare and blistered valley, beneath an unforgiving sun, cursing his impetuosity. 

The rim of a mug touched his lips, startling d'Artagnan.  He wrapped both trembling, bandaged hands around it, though Aramis did not let go, and drank thirstily.  The water soothed his parched throat and lent a bit of strength to his voice when he continued.  "The first day, I could not move side to side or backward or forward, but after awhile, I thought ... I thought maybe I could lift ... myself ... up ... on my toes.  They'd stripped all but my britches ..."

"Strangely modest, those Spaniards," Aramis observed, stifling his horror with a bit of gallows humor to fill up the long gap.

d'Artagnan let go of the mug abruptly, his hands sliding back to the blanket.   Aramis, thankful he had not let go, set it beside the basin of bloody water.

"No boots ... no purchase in the sand.  I could see ... freedom ... so close.  So close." 

He'd quickly lost track of time, though he'd held onto hope until the flat, dry landscape had begun to blur into a mirage of shimmering water.  For awhile he'd held onto the thought that there might be some give in the bodies eventually, as flesh shrank and brittle bones began to crack under the intense pressure.   He had been able to shift a little on his feet from side to side as he'd watched the glossy black crows land to peck out the eyes of the bodies in front of him.  He'd screamed himself hoarse, jerking his head back and forth when they'd begun hopping from shoulder to shoulder looking for further edibles, beaks open as if they were laughing at his puny resistance, heads cocking to inspect him, their bright, beady eyes shiny with the knowledge that they had only to wait. 

It had not taken terribly long to realize he'd even be cooked for them.  The combination of viciously hot sun and dry wind had sucked all the moisture out of him before sundown that first day.  By the time the sun had reached its zenith on the second day, his skull had been hot as a lit firecracker, lips and eyes swollen shut from sunburn and dehydration, the only movement of his body the rippling crawl of flesh as maggots began digging into the wound in his right thigh. 

The army surgeon who'd had the care of him once they'd made it back to camp had told him those maggots Porthos had insisted be left in place, had saved his leg, eating away the putrefying flesh around the wound, keeping infection at bay. 

"I had no idea how long ... I was there ... last thing I remember ... is you, Aramis, hearing your pray ... remember thinking ... wasn't alone anymore ... you'd see me ... over to the other side." 

The last conscious thought d'Artagnan remembered was of murmured prayers for safety and comfort. He did not know when he'd begun hearing them or recognized Aramis as the purveyor of those prayers, but he'd slipped into unconsciousness knowing Aramis would be there to walk with him to the door of Beyond.   

"What did they want from you?"

"Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  While I was conscious, I never saw a living soul." 

"Barbaric," Aramis muttered.

"Oh, there was a purpose behind it."  Athos shook his head as if trying to shake loose the recollection.  "You were a tool of sorts, to use against Porthos and I.  They wanted the usual; troop strength and movements, supply lines, what we knew of the Spanish army, all the while doling out bits and pieces of what they'd done to you, along with promises to end it quickly, before the sun cooked your brains, if we would just tell them what they wanted to know."

"Hell, we sang like choir boys," Porthos said innocently.  "Though it weren't the same without you with us, d'Artagnan.  Had to hold out a bit longer than usual, since there were only two of us.  We let 'em have a little fun 'fore we started drawin' maps, telling 'em exactly how many troops, how general this'n'that moved his company, etc., etc.  Told 'em everything we knew- with a few embellishments.  Dunno know why they didn't believe we was from St. Sulpice." 

"The caves were both a blessing a curse.  We were able to lose our pursuers quickly, when we managed to get free, but we lost ourselves too.  It took us a day to find a way out."

"Then we had to wait 'til dark to borrow horses," Porthos grumbled.  They'd stolen two, their indoctrination on d'Artagnan's captivity making them well aware he would be in no shape to ride when they found him. 

Athos saw again the murder of crows that had flown up, squawking madly at their approach, heard the sounds of breaking necks and collarbones as they'd literally scrambled across the heads and shoulders of dead men in order to pull d'Artagnan out and get to the other side.  Their captors had described in gory detail how they laid boards across the shoulder-high pit to pull out and replace captives as necessary. 

Porthos had shoved d'Artagnan's dead weight up in front of Athos once he was mounted, swung onto his own stolen nag and they'd ridden like madmen for the forest hills without even taking time to find out if their companion was alive.

"So all of you were trapped behind enemy lines, no weapons, no gear, nothing but stolen horses and an instinct for survival."

Porthos and Athos exchanged another glance. 

"Yeah," Porthos said, "that about sums it up.  We knew d'Artagnan was in the valley somewhere, knew it was a three day ride from the end of pass to the next mountain range, and knew we weren't going anywhere without him, no matter if he was dead or alive." 

The French had withdrawn back through the pass, leaving the scorched valley crawling with Spanish militia.  By day, they'd had to stay well back from the forest's verge, scouting from inside the tree line, except for the midday hours of siesta.  The Spanish held siesta as sacred as their religion.

In order to cover more ground, Athos and Porthos had gone in opposite directions during those hours, battling the fatigue of constant vigilance and their own inflicted injuries, to quarter sections of the valley.  Athos  had insisted they cover territory again, that they'd already covered by night, lest night's shadows obscure their quarry.  And he'd been right, for it had been on a second sweep over ground they'd covered the night before, that he'd come upon the sea of dead men bearing one lone living occupant.  It had been no more than another burnt patch of grass in his peripheral vision on first reconnaissance, the scent reaching him just a shade darker than the smell of the burnt timber of the villages and the stink of the charred flesh of those who had refused to leave their homes. 

d'Artagnan stared at Aramis, perplexed.  " How could I have heard you praying?"  

"God knew your need and supplied it."  Aramis had no other explanation.  "The body can only endure three or four days without water.  It's a miracle you survived at all."  He'd been to Spain, his mother's family lived in the sun-baked, provincial capital of _Almería_ in Andalusia.

"Thought Athos was gonna forget himself so far as to dance a jig when ya come around.  We'd been tendin' a corpse 'til you finally recognized us a coupl'a nights after we found ya."

"How did you get back through the pass?"

"Well now," Porthos said with a grin, "that's the good part.  Rather than head straight back to the pass, we went deeper into Spanish territory, up the ridge beyond their camps.  Athos found a game trail and followed it 'til we came across an untouched little glade with a waterfall and a pool.  Best part was the cave behind the waterfall.  Laid d'Artagnan close enough to the spray that it cooled his skin without drowning 'im right off."  He folded himself to sit at the foot of the bed.  "We were able to forage some of that plant you used to use on burns,  Aramis, all-o somethin' or other, out of the ash in the valley, the leaves were kinda cooked, but when ya cut it, it still oozed that sap.  We covered d'Artagnan in that several times a day, just rolled him under the waterfall to rinse off the old and then apply the new. 

We took to foraging from the Spanish camps for wine and bread when fish didn't set so well with our patient. Took us a few days, but eventually we had a nice little camp behind the waterfall, blankets and food and a stash'a weapons 'n ammunition.  Figured if we had to fight our way back through the pass, we'd at least take out a few more 'o the enemy if they caught up to us again.  But that didn't happen, 'cause Athos got'ta scoutin' the cave behind the waterfall.  Turned out there was a way through that was navigable on the other side.  Comin' out, we could see the whole plain on the north side of the pass, 'n the French army sittin' like a big spider just waitin' for its prey to show itself." 

"Do you remember the trip down, d'Artagnan?"  Athos settled more comfortably on the bed as the muscle strain in his back, shoulders and neck loosened a bit.   "We had to makeshift a sort of sling stretcher out of a blanket which wasn't quite as stable as we'd hoped."

"I remember very little after I lost consciousness in the pit, until we were back with the army.  I don't know how long.  But you were both there when I woke up again, screaming, as I recall."

There'd been quite a lot of that the first few days following their stumbling into camp dragging d'Artgnan between them.   They'd followed the mountain goats down the steep side, though lacking the goats nimbleness, they'd added quite a number of new contusions and lacerations to their already impressive array.  The physician in charge of their care had caused a separate medical tent to be erected and moved them some distance from the main infirmary lest d'Artagnan's unrest disturb the remainder of the recuperating soldiers. 

de la Force had informed Athos, with an extremely weary sigh, that he was inclined to shoot them as deserters and be done with the lot of them, then pumped them for every bit of information the Musketeer captain - and then Porthos - could recall.  Athos had caught the reluctant gleam of admiration though, and been unsurprised when upon their recovery, the Musketeer regiment had slowly been worked into de la Forces' network of intelligence gleaning spies.  

"That yellin' didn't last long either," Porthos lied with a grin, though the months following Roncesvalles had been the start of the habit of sleeping together within touching distance.  A restless moan, an incipient shiver, the twitch of a hand or foot was enough to wake another to rouse the trapped sleeper - unremembered in the morning - though their already well-established trust had grown even greater in the days following their ordeal. 

"What say you?" Porthos twitched a pair of britches off a wall hook, a shirt from another.  "Shall we embrace the coming day rather than return to bed?"

"No."  d'Artagnan surprised them all with his staccato response.  "No, I don't want this day to start any earlier than necessary"

Porthos twigged to the reason first.  "I can put off leavin' for a day or two."

"Pretty sure your new wife will be appreciative of the extra time," Aramis said cheekily, winking broadly at Porthos, who blushed but grinned shyly. 

At least for the time being, this purging was done.  Aramis doubted the wound was wholly clean, but the reopening would lessen its ability to trouble d'Artagnan's sleep quite so much and Constance would make him tell it again, sooner rather than later.  Eventually it would close over, leaving behind the kind of scar tissue that shaped a life. 

"I suppose if we are to stay a while longer, I should also share that you were not left out when the queen began handing out honors, d'Artagnan." Athos had not intended to make this announcement in his nightshirt, but if it was to be the gift it was intended to be, rather than a nasty jolt, the news was best delivered now. "As of today, you are the Captain of the People's Musketeers.  Aramis has a pauldron stashed away somewhere with your new insignia and rank, though I have Tréville's if you would rather wear it.  When you gave away our old ones, and I knew the queen would agree you were ready for the command, it occurred to me Tréville's might have sentimental value, too, so I kept it."

d'Artagnan straightened as if someone had pulled an invisible string in his spine.  "Captain?  But that's ..."  he craned his neck to look Athos in the eye, "your job."

"I'm not going to be here much longer and the garrison needs a commander in my absence."

"Uhhhhhhhh .. no," their youngest said decisively, "the queen knows nothing of my experience, she can't make that decision."

"Actually, she knows quite a lot about your experience," Aramis countered.  "She's been the one receiving the daily dispatches since the king's illness became known.  She is well qualified to make the decision.  Aside from that, the honors have all been bestowed by Athos' commendation; being something of a war hero, the queen felt it wise to abide by his recommendations."

"All that fancy talk just means you're stuck with it," Porthos announced, throwing the clothes he'd gathered at d'Artagnan.  "Come on, the women are fixin' food and I find myself ready to eat."

"When aren't you ready to eat?" Aramis inquired blithely, heading for the door.  "We'll see you downstairs?"

"Yes, shortly."  Athos waved them on their way, waited 'til the door closed and twisted on the bed so he was facing d'Artagnan.  "Porthos will make an excellent general, he's got a mind for strategy and the will to bend even the most reluctant to his command.  You, however, are a natural leader.  You shine brighter than the rest of us, d'Artagnan, it makes everyone want to be _you_ and if they can't be you, then they want to be near you.  They want to be noticed by you, they want your approval.  Whether you are aware of it or not, you have developed the knack for using this as a tool of command.  And it doesn't hurt that you are approachable and genuine in your dealings with the men.  This transition will be far easier for you than it was for me."  He rose and peeled back the sheet and blanket, asking seamlessly, "Do you think you can make it downstairs?"

d'Artagnan, pink-cheeked, shoved his feet over the side of the bed and pushed himself up, clutching the iron bedpost to steady himself.  "I think so, lest you think I'm going to take this lying down." 

Athos pitched the bloody water out the window, rinsed the bowl and poured new water from the drinking pitcher on top of the chest. 

"While I'm not averse to a higher pay grade and the new rank, I don't want it at the expense of your quitting."

"I haven't turned in my pauldron."  Athos made quick work of sponging d'Artagnan down.  "I'm taking a leave of absence.  Sit, so I can dry your hair."

d'Artagnan sat, partly because his legs were still unsteady, partly because it meant stealing one more moment with his best friend.  When Athos lowered the towel and brushed back the now merely damp strands of hair, d'Artagnan leaned against him and felt Athos' arms come around him.  "I know Sylvie has lightened those dark places we could never reach in you, Athos, and I'm glad for that, but I'm terrified that all of us going separate ways ... will break something in _me_ that can't be fixed.  You and Porthos ... part of me will go with each of you.  I won't be whole until we're together again."

Silently, Athos drew the youth to his feet, kissing the side of his head as he wrapped him in a full embrace.  "I must finish the work you and Porthos and Aramis and yes, Constance and Sylvie too, have begun in me.  As hard as it is to admit, I cannot do it here in the place where so much of my past overshadows the present.  Your work is here, d'Artagnan, rebuilding the garrison, aiding Aramis in the rebuilding of France under the new regent.  This war will be over soon, Porthos will retire with a general's pay, and return here to Paris, to settle with Elodie; he's a city boy at heart.  You will only be missing a quarter by then and you and Constance will fill that with your love and the children that will follow.  Selfishly, I hope you will always miss me, even if it's only a little.  But I pray that your life will be so full that there will be no holes to fill eventually." 

"You don't mean to return."  d'Artagnan's voice was muffled in Athos' shoulder. 

Athos was silent for several long moments.  He could not find in it himself, as Father Grandier would have said, to make the small lie of convenience, but neither could he bring himself to slam the door shut.   "I cannot take back what the queen has bestowed, nor do I want to, but that does not mean we will not see each other again.  I am to be a father, d'Artagnan, a thing I had no expectation of ever being.  If I am to be a good one, I must follow this road to the end of it.  And I do not know where it leads.  Perhaps that will be back here to take up some other role; perhaps it will not.  But France is not so big as to separate us for the rest of our lives." 

"I will take that as a promise."  d'Artagnan hugged his mentor hard before drawing back.  "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"

"Eh," Athos agreed with a Gallic shrug, "haven't we proven it time and time again?  Shall we go down to break our fast?"

"Mmmmmm ... do you require valet services as well?" 

Athos' perfunctory glance was preoccupied.  "Oh.  I'll just be a moment."

d'Artagnan put a steadying hand to the wall.  "I'll wait on the stairs."  He plunked himself down, unknowingly, in the spot his wife had warmed not so long ago and leaned his head against the wall.  He could still see the blurry outlines of the valley floor, heat shimmering in the insufferably hot air, though he no longer felt the ghostly touches of the dead feathering his arms and legs. 

The experience, nightmarish as it had been, had been a significant turning point for d'Artagnan.  He'd had innumerable brushes with death prior to Roncesvalles, but they'd been the exhilarating kind, more heart pounding than heart stopping.  At barely twenty-four, he'd been young and brash enough that their legendary getaways had become something of the norm, rather than hair-raising escapes as Athos and Porthos had characterized them. 

In a way it had been a strangely wonderful time-out-of-time, the elation of winning a near-constant elixir pouring through his blood, revving the inevitable battle high.  Until Roncesvalles - when the game of war had turned on him savagely. 

He'd never asked, and his companions had never divulged the fate of the child he'd hared off to rescue.  Because of him, Athos and Porthos had been subjected to their own little bit of hell - he'd heard the smothered groans, seen the quickly stifled winces as he'd convalesced - though neither of them had leveled any accusations.  Neither had he been subjected to one of the quiet withdrawals he'd come to expect from Athos when his rash actions led them into trouble.  Both of them had hovered over him like a treasure lost and found again.  d'Artagnan suspected it was the lingering guilt, as much as the actual experience, that fueled the repetition of the nightmare. 

While neither the experience, nor the guilt, had completely curtailed his impulsiveness, it had certainly reined it in.  It had, however, completely crushed the bit of thrill he hadn't quite been able to eradicate when he'd found himself the beneficiary of the same kind of hero worship he'd experienced trailing Athos like the eager puppy they'd nicknamed him. 

d'Artagnan sighed.  Perhaps his friends would not leave today after all, but tomorrow or the next day, they would be off to have new adventures and make memories that didn't include him.  The hollow in the pit of his stomach housed a thousand fluttering butterflies and not just because of the unexpected role he was shortly to take up.  

Athos was an astute and keen observer of human nature.  If he saw more in d'Artagnan than d'Artagnan saw in himself, the youthful war hero would just have to dig deep enough to excavate the traits that would help him fill Athos' boots.  And he could do that because he'd had the opportunities two heroic men had afforded him in the short time he'd been a Musketeer. 

d'Artagnan blinked to clear away the last of the fading internal vision, determinedly regathering his stolen strength so that by the time Athos reappeared dressed for the day, he was standing straight and tall, feet firmly planted, breathing deeply and freely. 

Athos made a mental note to tell Constance to send for Aramis if this happened again, but he had a sense that the marksman - as usual - had been right.  Dragging out even the few details they'd shared had created a buffer around the experience, a distance that would help extract the lethal sting of the nightmare. 

"All right, pup?" 

d'Artagnan squinted rather than roll his eyes - he still had a lingering headache - lest Athos imagine he could use the nickname with impunity.  "I will be, though I'm going to miss you and Porthos like amputated limbs."

"Oh yes, exactly the image I needed to take away with me.  Thank you." 

They continued down the stairs side by side, shoulders bumping in friendly fashion, both of them hoarding away the memory of this moment in time.

Roncesvalles had shaped his past, and it would shape his future, too, because ... what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.  d'Artagnan had learned that by heart. 

 

~*~

 

**Author's Note:**

> Bent History: The Royal and Military Order of Saint Louis was a military Order of Chivalry, but it was not founded until 5 April 1693 by Louis XIV . I found a page showing various French medals, but the only thing I could read was the dates and that proved to be unhelpful. So I borrowed Louis XIII son's medal to give to the Musketeers for their extraordinary service on behalf of their country. 
> 
> Screencaps from The Musketeers Gallery at screencapped.net have been removed due to the upheaval at Photobucket. 
> 
> This has been a work of transformative fan fiction. The characters and settings in this story belong to the British Broadcasting Company, its successors and assigns. The story itself is the intellectual property of the author. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.


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